John.  Ma^sefield 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

PAUL  TURNER,  U.S.M.C.R. 

KILLED  IN  ACTION,  SAIPAN 

JUNE,  1944 


BY 

JOHN  MASEFIELD 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1919 


PUBLISHED  IN  U.  S.  A.,  1919 
BT  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


/;*: 

<r  (    'J      . 

ill-  /TV. 


TO 
H.  G.  B. 


602559 


NOTE 

NINETEEN  of  these  tales  and  articles  have  been 
printed  in  the  Manchester  Guardian  during  the 
last  two  years.  I  thank  the  Editor  and  the  Pro- 
prietors of  that  paper  for  their  kindness  in  per- 
mitting me  to  reprint  these  items  in  this  volume. 
The  story  "  El  Dorado  "  was  printed  in  the 
February  issue  of  Macmillan's  Magazine;  the 
story  of  "  Davy  Jones's  Gift "  appeared  in 
Country  Life  (11  Nov.,  1905)  ;  "  The  Yarn  of 
Happy  Jack  "  and  "  Some  Irish  Fairies  "  ap- 
peared in  the  Speaker  within  the  last  eighteen 
months.  I  thank  Messrs.  Macmillan,  and  the 
Proprietors  of  Country  Life  and  of  the  Speaker 
for  allowing  me  to  use  these  stories.  The  other 
tale  is  now  printed  for  the  first  time. 

J.  M. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I    EDWARD  HEBHIES     .     •> 1 

II    A  WHITE  NIGHT 29 

III  Bio   JIM 37 

IV  EL   DORADO        45 

V  THE  PIRATES  or  SANTA  ANNA  ....     60 

VI    DAVY  JONES'S  GIFT 67 

VII    GHOSTS 75 

VIII    AMBITIOUS  JIMMY  HICKS 83 

IX    ANTY  BLIOH 91 

X    Ox  GROWING  OLD 100 

XI    A  MEMORY 108 

XII    Ox  THE  PALISADES 115 

XIII  THE  REST-HOUSE  ox  THE  HILL  ....  123 

XIV  GEXTLE  PEOPLE 130 

XV    SOME  IRISH  FAIRIES 138 

XVI    THE  CAPE  HOHX  CALM 148 

XVII     A  PORT  ROYAL  TWISTER 156 

XVIII     Ix  A  FO'C'SLE 164 

XIX    THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  WELL 171 

XX    BEIXO  ASHORE 179 

XXI    OXE  SUXDAY 187 

XXII     A  RAIXES  LAW  ARREST 194 

XXIII  THE  SCHOOXER-MAX'S  CLOSE  CALLS       .     .  201 

XXIV  THE  YARN  OF  HAPPY  JACK  .  .  210 


EDWARD  HERRIES 

"Only  death  adds  to  our  length;  nor  are  we  grown 
In  stature  to  be  men,  till  we  are  none." 

An  Anatomy  of  the  World. 

EDWARD  HERRIES,  the  poet,  rose  from  his  chair, 
and  looked  through  the  window  over  the  dark- 
ening valley.  The  moon  had  risen  over  the 
tree-tops,  and  the  yews  made  black  patches 
here  and  there  in  the  mass  of  trembling  branches 
ridging  the  hill.  He  flung  back  the  curtain, 
so  that  he  might  see  better;  and  the  moonlight, 
falling  upon  him,  made  yet  more  pale  the  pale- 
ness of  his  refined  face,  now  wrung  with  sorrow. 
He  took  one  of  the  silver  candlesticks  and  held 
it  so  that  the  light  might  fall  upon  a  portrait 
hanging  in  the  window-nook.  It  was  the  por- 
trait of  a  woman  a  little  older  than  himself; 
and  one  had  but  to  see  the  confident  poise  of 
the  sweet  head  and  the  firm  red  line  of  the  lips, 
and  the  delicate  sharp  cutting  of  the  chin,  to 
know  that  she  was  one  of  those  queenly  women 


2  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

before  whom  the  hearts  of  the  weak  and  of  the 
strong  are  as  dust  upon  the  road.  Edward 
Herries  looked  at  the  picture  for  a  long  time, 
and  sighed  and  bit  his  lip.  "  She  was  right,"  he 
said  sadly ;  "  she  was  right.  I  am  not  the  man 
for  her.  I  am  too  goody-goody.  She  wants  a 
man  with  more  devil  in  him." 

The  room  was  very  silent,  save  for  the  ticking 
of  a  clock.  It  was  a  sombre  chamber,  lighted 
by  the  fire  and  by  four  candles.  The  candles 
guttered  now  and  then  as  the  wind  raised  the 
blue  curtains  and  let  them  fall  again.  Very  far 
away  a  church  bell  tolled  the  hour  and  a  dog 
barked,  making  echoes.  Herries  sat  at  the  table 
and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  thinking  of 
the  alert,  confident,  conquering  beauty  who  was 
passing  like  a  queen,  even  then,  with  her  court 
about  her,  in  the  great  house  a  few  miles  away, 
where  the  hall  shook  with  the  riot  of  the  dance. 
"  Four  years,"  he  said  sadly ;  "  I  have  loved  her 
for  four  years."  He  placed  the  portrait  in 
front  of  him  and  looked  at  it  again.  He 
thought  of  the  times  when  he  had  seen  her  look 
like  the  portrait :  wondering  a  little  at  the  blind- 
ness or  frailty  of  the  painter,  who  had  seen  only 
that  one  look,  marked  only  that  one  passing 


EDWARD  HERRIES  3 

beauty,  from  love's  feast  and  beauty's  mirror,  so 
queenly  decked  in  the  woman's  face,  for  any 
man  with  eyes  or  passion.     He  had  often  seen 
her  look  like  that,  he  thought.     She  had  a  way 
of  looking  up  like  that  from  her  work,  or  book ; 
and  then  her  lips  moved  just  like  that  at  the 
beginning  of  a  smile.     If  he  had  been  a  painter, 
he  thought,  he  would  have  painted  her  with  her 
hair  loosed;  she  had  glorious  hair;  and  with 
the  one  wrist  turned  ba-ck,  as  he  had  seen  it  once, 
showing  the  lovely  arm  almost  to  the  elbow.     Or 
he  would  have  painted  her  on  horseback,  gallop- 
ing at  a  fence,  as  he  had  seen  her  once;  or  as 
she  had  stood  once  under  a  trailing  rose,  in 
blossom,  pulling  on  the  long  green  riding  gloves 
which  she  had  won  in  a  bet  from  one  of  the 
many  moths  who  fluttered  about  the  fire  of  her 
beauty.     Then  he  fell  to  thinking,  with  bitter- 
ness, of  the  man  who  would  win  her.     He  called 
over  the  names  of  the  confident,  raffish,  hand- 
some youths,  who  fetched  and  carried  for  her, 
and  lost  money  to  her  at  cards,  and  bought  rare 
flowers  for  her  in  the  winter  time,  and  rode  with 
her  through  the  countryside,  and  danced  with 
her  in  the  winter  dances  in  the  halls  of  the  great 
houses.     She    was    too    noble    a    woman,    he 


4,  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

thought,  to  take  one  of  those  young  men; 
though  every  one  of  them  (he  told  them  over 
one  by  one,  weighing  their  virtue)  had  some 
point  of  manliness,  some  trick  or  grace  of  car- 
riage, or  confident  surety  of  address,  which 
himself  lacked  and  longed  for.  She  would 
dangle  those  handsome  lads  for  a  year  or  two, 
and  then  other  passions,  or  the  business  of  the 
world,  would  shake  them  from  her,  and  they 
would  forget  all  about  her,  and  burn  her  with- 
ered roses  (once  the  spoils  of  golden  hours)  if 
they  ever  turned  them  up  among  the  litter  of 
rubbish ;  among  the  letters  and  spoils  of  youth, 
tossed  aside  in  boxes  and  forgotten  for  years. 
He  felt  sure  that  the  man  who  married  her 
would  be  an  elderly,  mature  man,  a  soldier  or 
statesman,  grave  and' politic;  who  would  marry 
her  for  her  beauty  and  fresh  sparkling  charm. 
He  would  be  polite  to  her  (this  husband),  with  a 
cold,  stately  politeness,  till  some  heavy  tomb, 
with  a  heavy  epitaph,  concealed  him  from  admir- 
ing relatives.  She  was  made  for  a  more  lovely 
life  than  that,  he  thought.  The  fancy  came  to 
him,  as  of  late  it  had  often  come  to  him,  that 
perhaps  her  gaiety  and  gallant  carriage  were 
but  blinds  to  the  true  woman;  and  that  that 


EDWARD  HERRIES  5 

seeming  heart  of  courage  would  be  glad  to  falter 
and  loiter;  and  that  a  little  tenderness,  even  a 
little  sadness  in  the  voice,  might  set  the  old  man- 
ner shaking,  and  show  the  true  woman  under~ 
neath,  of  grave  heart  and  noble  pride,  beautiful 
exceedingly,  glad  to  lay  by  the  mask.  He 
thought  tenderly  for  a  few  moments,  of  life  with 
her,  and  of  the  many  gentlenesses  and  unselfish- 
nesses, undreamed  of  by  most  men,  for  which 
marriage  gives  the  opportunity.  He  thought 
of  her  in  sickness,  in  sadness,  in  possible  trou- 
ble ;  and  it  was  a  bitter  pill  for  him  to  think  that 
it  would  be  denied  to  him  to  comfort  her,  or  to 
help  her,  even  if  he  knew ;  when  she  had  passed 
to  the  keeping  of  the  old  soldier,  white  like  his 
honour,  infirm  like  his  science,  who  tottered  and 
menaced  in  the  young  man's  fancy,  darkened  by 
his  present  trouble. 

There  was  a  paper  lying  on  the  table;  the 
young  man  picked  it  up.  It  was  written  upon 
in  his  beautiful  script ;  its  very  erasures  were  re- 
fined. The  writing  was  an  unfinished  sonnet, 
full  of  a  haunting  melancholy,  which  pleased  the 
young  man  as  he  read  it  over : 

I  saw  that  sacred  wood   where   Beauty's  rose  — 
He    sighed    plaintively,    altering    "  that "    to 


6  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

"  the,"  after  some  deliberation.  "  She  was 
right,"  he  said  sadly.  "  I'm  too  goody-goody. 
The  only  thing  I'm  fit  for  is  poetry.  She  wants 
a  man  with  more  devil  in  him."  For  a  moment 
he  thought  that  it  would  be  glorious  to  make  his 
life,  as  it  were,  an  altar,  ever  smoking  with  sac- 
rifice ;  a  ritual  ever  beautiful  with  her  worship ; 
living  aloof  and  consecrate,  in  beautiful  emotion, 
praising  this  woman  in  his  art ;  so  that  her  name 
might  be  a  torch,  a  holy  fire,  to  the  lovers  of  all 
time.  That  would  be  beautiful,  he  thought ;  but 
only  for  a  moment.  The  sonnet  before  him  was 
not  a  perfect  sonnet ;  the  love  was  well ;  one  or 
two  lines  were  beautiful,  there  was  a  fine  image ; 
but  the  couplet  spoiled  it ;  it  rang  thin,  did  that 
concluding  couplet.  "  I'm  no  good  even  at 
poetry,"  he  sighed.  "  It  takes  a  man  even  to 
write  a  sonnet  —  a  man  with  devil  in  him." 

I  saw  the  sacred  wood  where  Beauty's  rose  — 

He  altered  "  the  "  to  "  that "  again,  with  deli- 
cate fineness,  so  as  to  make  no  blot  upon  the 
script.  "  Beauty  of  the  world,"  he  said,  "  Oh 
burning  beauty  of  the  world.  Would  I  were  a 
violet  in  the  grass,  hidden  among  the  dead  thorn 
leaves,  that  your  passing  foot  might  crush  me. 


EDWARD  HERRIES  7 

The  thrush  in  the  may  blossom  is  happier  than 
I,"  he  said,  "  for  he  sees  you  going  lightly 
among  the  flowers,  among  the  golden  bells  of 
the  flowers,  among  the  pale  stars  of  the  flowers, 
among  the  passionate  crimson  flowers,  and  the 
flowers  that  are  white  like  your  soul.  Oh 
beauty,  oh  beauty  of  the  world,"  he  said,  "  you 
are  like  the  sun  upon  the  flowers,  like  the  sun  in 
April.  The  hedges  bud  with  their  fresh  green 
shoots,  there  is  blossom  on  the  hedges.  The 
brooks  chatter  down  the  meadow;  and  the 
blackbird  sings.  It  is  April  when  you  are  pass- 
ing. There  is  April  in  my  heart,  oh  beautiful 
woman,  when  I  see  your  beauty  brightening  the 
world  like  the  sun. 

"  I  am  no  good  to  you,"  he  added,  sighing. 
"  I'm  a  lame  crock,  my  sweet.  I  am  a  little  dust 
for  you  to  tread  on;  a  little  violet  for  you  to 
wear  and  forget ;  a  song  sung  softly  to  you,  to 
pleasure  you  for  five  minutes."  He  repeated 
the  phrase  several  times,  as  though  it  gave  him 
importance.  "  I'm  a  lame  crock,  indeed,"  he 
said.  "  I  blush  when  I  pass  two  men  at  a  street 
corner."  He  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hands, 
and  thought  of  the  quiet,  ordered,  beautiful 
life,  which  had  ma4e  him  so  shy,  so  self-con- 


8  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

scious,  so  unfit  for  mixture  with  the  clumsy 
boors  of  the  world  of  the  unthinking.  He  had 
always  lived  a  secluded,  sheltered  life,  among 
many  books,  and  in  great  cities,  where  a  man's 
neighbour  is  his  enemy,  or  rival.  He  had  but 
to  raise  his  eyes,  and  to  look  about  him,  to 
see,  as  it  were,  the  symbol  of  his  life  in  the  gear 
he  had  gathered  for  his  room.  There  were  the 
four  silver  candlesticks,  and  the  heavy  blue  cur- 
tains; the  case  of  books,  in  their  bindings  of 
parchment  and  leather,  with  their  broken  clasps 
and  backs;  the  Spanish  swords  over  the  fire- 
place ;  the  three  Venetian  goblets,  the  bowl  of 
flowered  bronze,  heaped  with  gems,  beads  of  blue 
and  red,  amber  pellets,  and  some  old  silver  coins 
from  the  Greek  islands.  f(  Life  has  been  this  to 
me,  all  along,"  he  said.  "  Good  Lord,  this  has 
been  life  to  me;  this  room.  Wherever  I  have 
gone,  in  Paris,  in  Leyden,  in  Venice,  in  Rome,  in 
Padua,  I  have  had  this  room.  I  have  been  shut 
in  by  these  four  walls,  lit  by  those  four  lights, 
guided  by  all  that  rubbish  on  the  shelf,  amused 
by  all  those  gimcracks  on  the  mantel."  The 
pageant  had  gone  by  him,  the  god  had  gone  by 
him,  tossing  his  laurels,  as  he  sat  blinking  by 
candlelight  at  the  little  Venetian  Petrarch  in 


EDWARD  HERRIES  9 

italic  type.  Life  had  meant  nothing  more  to 
him  than  this  room,  these  gauds,  the  manu- 
scripts in  the  lavender,  the  dusty  gems  in  the 
bowl.  All  the  beauty  and  strangeness  of  the 
world  had  been  before  him;  but  he  had  seen  it 
from  a  comfortable  window,  never  from  the  eyes 
of  men  and  women,  fiery  with  passion,  or  a  di- 
vine hope. 

And  of  his  friends,  of  the  young  men  who  had 
been  boys  with  him,  who  hung  at  the  beck  of 
the  beautiful  woman,  glad  to  beg  roses  from 
her,  and  to  beg  for  them  like  so  many  puppies. 
One  of  them  was  a  soldier,  who  had  been  in 
three  fights,  and  had  run  through  a  trooper  in 
a  skirmish.  He  walked  with  swing,  with  style, 
as  though  the  world  were  free  quarters  to  him. 
He  had  a  scarlet  cloak,  which  set  somehow  over 
the  sword,  so  that  his  whole  figure  had  a  gal- 
lantry, a  brave  rakish  decision,  which  made  way 
for  him  in  crowded  roads,  and  won  him  the  re- 
spect of  servants.  Another  was  of  the  King's 
court ;  and  had  gone  in  the  train  of  the  ambas- 
sador to  Paris,  where  he  had  fought  a  duel  for 
the  love  of  a  lady.  Another  was  a  sportsman, 
who  could  ride,  run,  wrestle,  or  fence  with  any 
man  in  England.  A  fourth  was  a  breaker  of 


10  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

hearts,  a  lover  of  women,  whose  old  age  would 
be  haunted  by  the  eyes  of  beautiful  women,  be- 
seeching and  appealing.  A  fifth,  who  could  sing 
delicately,  was  excellent  at  all  games  of  skill, 
at  cards,  at  quoits,  at  bowls;  so  that  in  that 
little  court  he  was  a  desired  knight,  to  whom 
many  roses  were  given.  They  were  all  his  in- 
feriors, he  felt.  Their  brains  were  the  brains 
of  healthy  dogs  or  horses;  but  he  had  only  to 
join  their  company,  in  that  low  room  so  often 
hallowed  by  his  love,  to  feel  that  they  had  a 
virtue  which  would  never  be  his:  a  decisive, 
manly  style;  a  knowledge  of  life  and  of  the 
world;  which  carried  them  through  crises 
enough  to  destroy  him.  They  were,  if  he  had 
but  seen  as  much,  the  world.  He  was  one  of 
those  who  are  not  of  the  world.  He  was  one  of 
those  shy,  self-conscious  souls,  never  at  ease, 
never  happy,  in  the  world,  but  living  (the  im- 
mortal part  of  them)  in  Paradise,  and  trying 
always  to  drag  their  unwilling  bodies  across  the 
heavenly  frontier.  "  My  life  has  been  a  fail- 
ure," he  cried.  "  I  have  created  a  life  for  my- 
self, and  it  crumbles  like  clay,  now  that  it  is  put 
to  the  test.  I  have  lived  among  shadows  and 
essences;  among  ghosts,  among  the  dead, 


EDWARD  HERRIES  11 

among  memories.  I  have  bowed  my  mind 
among  poems,  and  in  the  beautiful  thoughts  of 
men  who  lived  greatly.  And  all  the  time  the 
pageant  has  been  passing,  the  horses  trampling, 
the  music  shaking  the  air,  the  eyes  of  the 
dancers  burning,  the  passion  awake  in  the  heart, 
the  tumult  throbbing  in  the  blood.  All  the 
time,  men  have  gone  by  me  to  the  battle ;  women 
have  plucked  at  my  sleeve,  desiring  my  love; 
there  has  been  wine  poured  out  in  the  cup,  and 
music  playing  me  to  the  dance.  And  I,  that 
have  striven  to  love  nobly,  to  make  my  heart  a 
sweet  sacrifice  to  the  woman  I  love,  have  made 
myself  a  weak,  stooping,  blushing  failure,  whom 
women  can  only  pity  or  despise ;  but  never  love." 
He  thought  for  a  moment  of  another  sonnet 
he  had  written.  It  was,  as  he  told  himself,  the 
golden  feather  —  the  plume  —  of  his  beautiful 
youth  and  of  his  love.  It  began  — 

When,  as  a  serf  in  her  dear  heavenly  court, 

and  it  had  given  him  comfort  many  times,  when 
he  had  seen  her  jesting  among  her  young  men. 
She  was  greater  than  that,  the  sonnet  said ;  that 
was  only  the  dress,  or  manner,  or  outward  sem- 
blance of  her  —  that  light,  laughing  woman. 


12  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

In  herself,  the  sonnet  said,  she  was  a  queen,  a 
spirit,  a  bird  of  heaven,  a  creature  of  heavenly 
blessing.  Her  mask  of  confident  gaiety  was 
nothing  but  a  pretty  screen  before  heaven  itself. 
He  repeated  the  sonnet;  but  the  assurance  of 
his  most  perfect  moment  could  not  be  brought 
back  by  its  shadow.  "  Ah  yes,"  he  said ;  "  so  I 
thought.  But  I  thought  then  that  she  might 
love  a  poet.  I  know  now  that  she  will  only  love 
a  man.  I  know  her  now.  I  know  that  sweet 
woman  to  her  very  heart's  blood  now.  I  love 
her  now.  I  know  her.  I  know  her  value. 
When  I  wrote  that,  I  loved  only  my  Idea  of  her." 
He  was  pleased  by  the  phrase,  and  repeated  it. 
"  I  loved  only  my  Idea  of  her."  The  thought 
flashed  through  his  mind,  that  the  Idea  is  the 
divine  truth ;  but  he  was  lecturing,  not  convers- 
ing with  himself,  and  the  thought  died  in  his 
brain.  "  I  loved  only  my  Idea  of  her,"  he  re- 
peated. "  That  lover  is  dead.  Now  I  love  her 
as  she  is,  for  what  she  is,  and  now  it  is  my  task 
to  make  myself  worthy  of  her,  to  make  myself  a 
man,  who  am  now  only  a  lover." 

He  unlocked  a  little  copper  box,  which  stood 
upon  the  mantel,  holding  nearly  everything 
which  made  life  precious  to  him.  There  were 


EDWARD  HERRIES  13 

two  little  books  which  she  had  given  to  him: 
a  Lovelace  and  a  Donne,  both  sacred  books. 
There  was  a  packet  of  letters,  laid  carefully  in 
lavender.  There  was  a  handkerchief,  believed 
to  be  hers,  which  he  had  found  in  the  garden. 
There  was  a  little  book,  in  green  leather,  con- 
taining all  that  he  could  remember  of  her,  her 
visits  and  amusements,  her  spoken  words. 
There  was  his  mother's  Prayer  Book,  with  a 
little  of  her  writing  in  it.  In  the  Prayer  Book 
were  some  flowers,  very  brittle  and  brown,  which 
had  each  its  memory  of  her,  dead  though  they 
were.  He  turned  them  over  sadly,  almost  with 
tears,  with  a  kind  of  awe,  as  though  the  giver 
were  dead.  "  Violets,"  he  said  sadly,  "  violets 
—  little  white  violets.  She  wore  you  in  her 
belt,  dear  blossoms.  Oh,  holy  woman,  oh,  lovely 
creature  of  God,  I  would  my  blood  were  flowers 
to  fling  at  your  feet."  He  remembered  picking 
the  white  violets;  he  remembered  where  they 
grew  —  on  a  sunny  bank,  outside  a  coppice ; 
where,  if  one  lay  still,  in  the  sun,  in  the  sweet 
scent,  the  rabbits  would  come  nibbling,  almost 
within  reach.  He  had  picked  a  sprig  of  mistle- 
toe on  the  same  day,  he  remembered.  It  lay 
there,  too,  though  broken,  and  very  dry.  That 


14  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

had  been  a  golden  day  —  a  day  to  remember  — 
the  day  that  he  picked  the  violets.  She  had 
been  thoughtful  that  day,  and  he  had  read 
poetry  to  her  —  Donne's  poetry  —  until  the 
passion  of  that  great  heart  had  almost  moved 
him  to  tears.  He  had  always  kept  the  anniver- 
sary of  that  day,  worshipping  its  relics  with  a 
ritual  of  poetry  and  sweet  feeling.  It  was  in 
April ;  and  he  would  always  remember  April ;  he 
prayed  that  he  might  die  in  April ;  for  that 
sweet  day's  sake.  He  repeated  the  name  April, 
as  though  the  lovely  name  would  bring  about 
him  the  loveliness  of  the  spring,  with  its  rooks 
cawing  home,  its  daffodils,  its  corn  springing 
green  from  the  earth,  its  primroses  in  the  dewy 
valleys.  She  had  meant  the  whole  of  April  to 
him,  she  moved  his  blood  like  the  spring ;  beauty 
quickened  in  his  heart  at  the  thought  of  her,  as 
the  young  grass  quickens  in  April,  as  the  bud  in 
the  hawthorn  breaks  into  its  white  blossom. 

He  handled  his  relics  reverently,  almost  with 
tears,  with  an  infinite  awe  and  humbleness.  He 
felt  that  he  stood  on  one  of  the  heights  of  life, 
that  his  love  made  him  almost  holy,  that  his 
thoughts  were  as  armed  spirits  guarding  her 
from  evil.  Then,  as  before,  he  was  troubled  by 


EDWARD  HERRIES  15 

that  doubt  of  his,  that  he  had  loved  only  his 
Idea  of  her ;  that  he  had  worshipped  the  idea,  not 
the  woman ;  that  he  had  now  to  fill  that  lack  in 
himself  which  made  him,  after  these  four  years, 
no  worthy  mate  for  her.  He  bowed  his  head 
upon  his  hands  as  he  remembered  his  last  talk 
with  her ;  as  she  sat  among  her  court,  laughing 
and  jesting.  He  blushed  to  think  of  his  distress 
among  those  young  men,  who  sat  there  with  such 
easy  good  humour,  so  ready  with  their  silly 
chatter;  so  skilled  in  retort;  so  quick  to  make 
her  laugh.  He  remembered  a  jest  of  hers,  a 
light  thing  enough ;  but  done  with  such  a  grace, 
with  so  much  of  the  woman's  nature  in  it,  it  had 
had  the  effect  of  genius.  He  bowed  his  head 
again,  with  the  thought  that  all  character  is  a 
manifestation  of  genius,  and  that  the  building 
up  of  such  a  woman,  out  of  a  child,  out  of  a 
schoolgirl,  was  a  divine  work  of  genius,  that 
she  was  a  divine  thing,  radiant  and  peerless ;  her 
wit  and  beauty  being  alike  sparkles  from  the 
heavenly  fire.  "  I  loved  only  my  Idea  of  her," 
he  repeated.  "  Now  I  love  her  as  she  is,  for 
what  she  is,  and  now  it  is  my  task  to  make 
myself  worthy  of  her,  to  make  myself  a  man, 
who  am  now  only  a  lover. 


16 

"  What  shall  I  do?  "  he  cried.  "  What  shall 
I  do?  I  have  lived  among  essences,  among 
memories :  and  if  I  stay  here,  among  these  books, 
I  shall  go  on  as  I  have  lived,  a  lover,  a  shadow, 
unstable  as  flame."  A  vision  shone  for  a  mo- 
ment in  his  mind,  of  the  laughing,  radiant 
beauty,  in  her  maddest  mood,  tossing  comfits  to 
her  courtiers,  for  them  to  catch  in  their  mouths, 
like  dogs.  "  Ah  yes,"  he  sighed. 

"When  thou  hast  stayed  and  done  thy  most, 
A  naked  thinking  heart,  that  makes  no  show, 
Is  to  a  woman   but   a  kind   of  ghost. 
How  shall  she  know  my  heart?" 

"  I  must  go  away  to  some  less  ordered  life,  to 
a  world  where  a  man  may  live  by  what  he  is.  A 
man  must  not  live  by  what  he  feels,  nor  by  what 
he  has  read,  but  by  the  will,  the  courage,  the  wit 
of  the  swordsman  who  fights  among  many 
edges."  He  snapped  to  the  lid  of  the  little  cop- 
per box,  feeling  that  he  was  shutting  away  from 
himself  a  part  of  his  life  which  was  beautiful 
and  sacred,  like  a  night  of  summer,  at  full  moon. 
"  I  have  lived  in  moonlight,"  he  thought.  "  My 
world  has  been  white  like  moonlight,  and  pure 
like  moonlight.  Now  over  the  valley  comes  the 
sun,  golden  like  corn,  bounteous  as  July. 


EDWARD  HERRIES  17 

Now,  my  beloved,  my  beauty,  my  share  of  God 
upon  earth,  your  knight  goes  out  into  the  sun." 
He  leaned  his  head  over  the  portrait,  and  kissed 
the  sweet  face  which  smiled  out  at  him. 

"  Ah,  my  beloved,"  he  said.  "  It  may  be  that 
I  shall  die  abroad.  I  may  never  see  you  again, 
dear  beauty.  Dear  woman,  I  may  never  see  you 
again.  But  if  I  die,  dear  heart,  down  in  the 
dust  I  shall  thrill,  I  shall  tremble,  at  the 
thought  of  your  kindness,  at  the  thought  of 
your  beauty,  your  beauty  that  makes  you  like 
fire,  like  God.  Ah,  if  I  die,  far  off,  among 
strangers,  my  soul  will  travel  the  forest,  and 
cross  the  seas,  and  flutter  to  your  feet,  dear 
woman,  like  a  moth  at  the  flame.  It  may  be 
that  I  shall  know  your  heart,  when  my  body  is 
dead,  and  it  may  be  that  I  may  shield  you,  dear 
love,  if  you  are  in  trouble  or  in  danger." 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  as  he  stopped 
speaking.  He  placed  the  miniature  in  an 
inner  pocket,  and  turned  to  go.  The  old 
woman,  who  kept  house  for  him,  would  see  to 
everything,  he  thought ;  and  he  left  the  candles 
burning  as  a  symbol  of  his  heart,  if  not  from 
carelessness ;  and  so  he  passed  down  the  stairs, 
to  the  stables  where  his  horse  stood  saddled. 


18  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

As  he  rode  through  the  little  town,  so  quiet 
under  the  moon,  he  wondered  at  the  beauty  of 
the  night.  "  Beauty  is  the  shadow  of  God,"  he 
said.  "  All  lovely  things  are  as  feathers  fallen 
from  His  wings,  brightening  the  air.  A  beauti- 
ful face  is  a  letter  in  God's  alphabet.  To  think 
of  a  beautiful  face  is  to  have  one's  prayer  an- 
swered." An  owl  called  from  the  wood;  for 
now  he  was  clear  of  the  town ;  and  at  the  cry  of 
the  bird,  so  haunting,  so  full  of  suggestion,  he 
reined  in.  There  before  him  was  his  lady's 
house,  standing  great  and  ghostly  in  the  moon- 
light, with  its  one  fir  tree  shaking  its  darkness 
against  the  stars.  There  was  a  light  in  the 
room,  high  up;  and  he  watched  it  for  many 
minutes,  with  feelings  which  were  like  prayers, 
if  incoherent.  "  Ah,  dear  woman,  dear 
woman,"  said  his  passionate  heart,  "  may  my 
prayers  be  a  shield  to  you.  May  my  spirit  be 
about  your  spirit.  May  my  prayers  be  as  a 
sword  before  you,  dear  thing  of  God,  dear  won- 
der." His  head  bowed  upon  his  chest,  the  reins 
slipped  from  his  fingers ;  his  tears  were  falling. 
"  My  heart  is  full  of  your  beauty,"  he  cried ; 
"  my  heart  is  a  cup  flowing  with  your  beauty ; 
the  angels  and  the  saints  drink  of  my  heart  in 


EDWARD  HERRIES  19 

the  courts  of  heaven."  He  could  not  say  more, 
for  the  words  choked  him.  He  looked  sadly  at 
the  lighted  room,  a  look  of  farewell,  then  the 
image  of  her  face  swam  into  his  mind,  in  a  blind- 
ing mist,  in  an  agony.  He  shook  his  horse  into 
a  walk,  and  rode  on,  sobbing,  through  the 
summer  night,  so  sweet,  so  full  of  odours,  so 
noisy,  with  the  nightjars  and  the  owl's  hoot- 
ing. 

It  was  autumn,  five  years  later,  that  he  came 
home  again.  He  rode  up  from  the  little  sea- 
port, one  rainy  day  in  October,  when  the  woods 
were  grey  with  cloud,  and  the  ways  melancholy 
with  the  dripping  of  drops.  Little  gusts  of 
wind  set  the  boughs  shaking  as  he  rode ;  and  at 
every  gust  drops  pattered  hurriedly,  in  a 
rhythm  almost  musical,  quick  to  cease.  He  had 
changed  much  in  the  five  years ;  and  none  of 
those  who  passed  him,  bowed  under  their  cloaks, 
hurrying  through  the  wet,  knew  him  for  Edward 
Herries.  Now  and  then  he  drew  rein  under 
some  sheltering  bough,  to  look  at  the  well- 
known  country,  beautiful,  even  in  its  autumn 
melancholy,  with  memories  of  the  woman  he 
loved.  There  was  the  hill,  dark  with  yew 


20  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

trees,  where  she  had  hurt  her  foot,  when  walk- 
ing with  him,  one  winter  morning.  There,  at 
the  corner,  she  had  galloped  past  him  one 
windy  March  day,  when  the  beauty  of  the 
wild  weather  seemed  to  have  passed  into  her 
blood.  Under  the  wood,  where  the  rolls  of 
cloud  hung,  they  had  looked  for  primroses; 
and  that  had  been  a  good  day,  a  day  of 
joy,  that  day  in  the  spring,  when  they  had 
looked  for  primroses.  He  remembered  the 
dress  she  wore,  and  the  way  her  face  was  raised 
to  him.  He  remembered  the  beauty  of  her 
look,  as  she  knelt  for  a  moment,  under  the  hazel 
boughs,  on  the  green  moss  of  the  clay,  to  pick 
from  a  plant  full  of  blossoms.  Somehow  the 
memories  were  strange.  They  stirred  him,  they 
were  fire  to  him ;  but  they  were  not  as  they  had 
been.  He  was  remembering  his  youth:  that 
was  it:  he  was  remembering  his  youth;  the 
woman  was  only  one  of  the  colours  in  the  pic- 
ture. 

He  had  changed  much  in  the  five  years.  He 
had  been  far  from  books,  roving  the  world.  He 
had  grown  sturdier,  coarser,  more  self-assertive. 
He  had  been  in  battles  and  marches,  at  the  sack 
of  towns,  at  the  boarding  of  ships  at  sea.  He 


EDWARD  HERRIES  21 

had  many  violent  memories,  memories  of  war 
and  of  anger,  black  and  savage,  to  lay  by  his 
memories  of  her  beauty.  When  he  thought  of 
her,  his  thoughts  were  tinged  with  these  new 
memories ;  his  mind  had  been  altered  by  them. 
The  horse  slipped ;  he  swore  at  him  as  he  pulled 
him  up,  thinking  that  the  oath  might  have  made 
a  difference,  had  she  heard  it,  years  ago,  in  the 
old  days. 

The  old  woman  who  kept  house  for  him  was 
there.  Nothing  had  changed.  The  pigeons 
still  ruffled  and  sidled ;  they  still  tumbled  in  the 
air;  they  still  cooed  drowsily.  There  were 
pools  in  the  gravel  just  where  there  had  been  in 
the  past,  in  rainy  weather.  The  little  leaden 
Cupid  still  bowed  over  the  fountain.  The 
aspen  still  trembled  and  trembled,  like  a  guilty 
thing,  like  a  wild  thing,  like  an  unhappy  thing. 
It  was  all  as  it  had  been  —  the  books,  the 
swords,  the  silver  candlesticks;  the  gems  and 
amber  in  the  bowl.  There  was  his  friend,  his 
friend  who  had  been  a  soldier,  come  to  welcome 
him.  He  hadn't  changed  either;  he  was  the 
same  or  seemed  so.  They  sat  down  to  dinner 
together  in  the  old  room  hung  with  so  many 
portraits,  dark  with  so  many  memories. 


22  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

After  dinner  they  took  their  wine  to  the  fire 
and  sat  there,  drinking;  and  as  they  drank, 
Herries  found  himself  wondering  at  his  friend, 
once  so  alert  and  lively,  but  now  so  dull.  "  I 
am  this  man's  master,"  he  thought.  "  This  is  a 
common  creature.  He  has  lived  his  youth.  I 
am  only  now  come  to  my  youth."  "  Ah  yes," 
said  his  friend.  "  You  see  my  father  died,  and 
so  I  settled  down.  Oh,  I  didn't  tell  you  —  I'm 
married.  Got  two  children.  You  may  remem- 
ber Polly  Gray."  Herries  had  a  memory  of  a 
red-faced  giggling  lady;  he  thought  with  sad- 
ness of  the  lives  of  the  children  under  such 
parents,  of  the  lives  of  the  parents,  of  the 
passing  of  the  flower  of  beauty.  He  took  a  sip 
of  wine  and  stirred  the  fire.  "  How's  the  great 
house? "  he  asked  casually.  "  Is  she  there 
still?"  Yes,  she  was  there  still.  No,  she 
hadn't  married ;  she  had  lost  her  looks  a  little ; 
grown  paler.  "  Ah  well,"  said  Herries  sadly, 
"we  all  do  that."  After  that  they  talked  of 
horses.  "  A  good  thing  your  going  away,  Her- 
ries," said  his  friend.  "  You've  lost  your  non- 
sense. You  used  to  be  always  reading  poetry." 
"  Yes,"  said  Herries,  "  I  have  lost  my  nonense. 
I  have  lost  it  indeed. 


EDWARD  HERRIES  23 

"  Man,"  he  continued,  "  life  is  nonsense.  It 
is  a  flower,  and  we  give  it  for  an  idea;  it  is  an 
idea,  and  we  give  it  for  a  flower.  I  have  trod- 
den my  life  in  the  dust,  and  the  dust  chokes  me." 
The  friend  would  not  drink  any  more  wine,  and 
Herries  was  too  stiff  with  his  ride  to  set  him 
home. 

It  was  on  a  melancholy  morning  that  Herries 
went  to  the  great  house.  He  went  half  angrily, 
irritated  by  the  memories  of  the  past;  and  half 
expectantly,  as  touched  by  them.  If  his  old 
love  were  kind,  he  thought,  it  would  be  very 
blessed  and  very  beautiful.  Yet  the  old  life  was 
dead  to  him.  He  could  not  live  the  old  ordered, 
secluded  life  any  more.  He  had  been  a  wild 
bird,  and  no  cage  would  ever  again  hold  him. 
He  wondered  that  she  should  have  borne  with 
him  in  the  old  days.  "  I  was  a  whining  puppy," 
he  said  savagely;  and  as  he  said  it  a  phrase 
from  a  sonnet  rose  up,  like  a  straw,  in  the  eddy 
of  his  mind.  "  Puppy,"  he  repeated,  blushing, 
"  I  was  callow  in  those  days.  How  could  she 
have  borne  with  me?  "  It  is  not  good  to  know 
the  answer  to  that  question.  When  we  know 
the  answer  to  that  question  we  have  done  with 
youth. 


24*  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

He  did  not  remember  the  servant  who  opened 
the  door  to  him;  but  his  heart  beat  more 
quickly  at  seeing  the  old  armour  on  the  panels ; 
and  the  cracked  Zucchero,  in  its  carved  frame, 
just  as  it  had  been  in  the  past.  He  lingered  a 
moment  in  the  hall,  thinking  of  the  many  times 
he  had  imagined  his  return;  and  of  the  many 
times  he  had  gone  to  that  house  in  the  spirit, 
during  his  five  years  of  exile.  The  blood  quick- 
ened in  his  veins  for  a  moment,  as  his  soul 
framed  the  likeness  of  his  old  love  as  she  had 
been,  but  with  the  lovely  face  abashed,  the  red 
lips  trembling,  before  the  perfected  lover,  tried 
in  the  world's  fire,  now  worthy  of  her  love. 
The  servant  returned,  asked  him  to  follow,  pre- 
ceded him.  They  walked  through  dark  rooms, 
along  corridors,  under  portraits  with  grave 
eyes,  portraits  of  ladies  long  dead,  and  of  men 
long  forgotten. 

"  Beauty  and  virtue  can  neither  die  nor  be 
forgotten,"  he  had  once  proudly  thought,  in 
passing  those  faces.  The  thought  came  back  to 
him  now;  he  remembered  the  epigram  he  had 
made,  and  repeated  it.  "  The  beauty  of  a 
woman,  the  virtue  of  a  man,  are  parts  of  God, 
often  the  only  parts  we  men  and  women  see.  A 


EDWARD  HERRIES  25 

woman's  beauty  is  eternal.  It  can  never  fade. 
It  becomes  a  part  of  the  beauty  of  the  world. 
No  sentiment,"  he  said  to  himself  sharply, 
checking  the  poetry.  "  Passion  is  of  heaven  or 
of  earth.  Sentiment  lives  in  limbo.  I  have 
won  clear  of  limbo."  The  servant  opened  the 
door  and  spoke  his  name. 

The  room  was  unchanged,  as  far  as  he  could 
see.  There  was  the  tapestry  of  the  finding  of 
Moses ;  there  was  the  drawing,  in  red  chalk,  of 
the  woman  of  Samaria ;  nothing  had  changed. 
He  was  disappointed  somehow;  and  the  njst 
greeting,  so  long  looked  for,  so  long  practised  in 
the  spirit,  was  over  before  its  significance  came 
home  to  him.  He  had  thought  that  the  touch 
of  her  hand  would  be  sacramental,  a  rapture,  a 
removal  of  the  seals.  The  fine,  delicate  hand 
merely  touched  his,  and  then  it  was  withdrawn. 
He  was  conscious  of  an  effort  to  remember 
whether  he  had  really  touched  her.  He  was  dis- 
appointed with  the  greeting.  It  had  been  a 
common  thing,  after  all ;  after  all  his  dreams. 
He  was  disappointed  with  the  face  of  his  old 
love;  his  homecoming  had  been  a  failure.  She 
was  beautiful  still;  for  her  beauty  was  that 
intellectual  beauty  which  changes  little  from 


26  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

childhood  to  old  age.  The  sweet  face  had 
grown,  perhaps,  paler;  the  eyes,  in  that  light, 
seemed  darker ;  the  expression  was  changed  and 
calmed ;  the  hair  was  heaped  in  a  new  fashion. 
He  remembered  the  old,  quickly  changing,  eager 
look,  the  flushed  cheek,  the  bright  eyes,  which 
had  moved  him  so  strangely  in  the  past ;  he  was 
angry  that  they  were  no  longer  there;  he  was 
vexed  that  her  voice  had  none  of  its  old  laugh- 
ter. He  was  conscious  that  he,  too,  had  al- 
tered. The  woman  beside  him,  whose  eyes  were 
so  dear  and  yet  so  strange,  was  surely  aware  of 
that.  He,  too,  had  altered.  He  felt  that  the 
woman  judged  him;  and  that  she,  who,  in  the 
past,  judged  nothing,  ate,  now,  only  of  the 
golden  kernel,  drank  only  of  the  hidden  waters ; 
lived  only  in  an  inner  temple  builded  of  intel- 
lectual beauty.  As  he  spoke  to  her  he  thought 
of  his  roving  in  the  world,  and  of  the  Spanish 
women  he  had  kissed.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
those  women  sat  at  his  side,  with  roses  in  their 
hair,  and  their  lips  still  tempting  his.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  she  saw  them.  It  seemed  to  him 
that  he  walked  in  the  temple  of  her  mind  for  a 
moment,  a  smirched  and  booted  figure,  and  that 
those  women  walked  with  him,  laughing,  rose- 


EDWARD  HERRIES  27 

crowned,  flushed,  spreading  defilement.  He  had 
thought,  of  old,  that  this  woman  would  be  won 
by  mastery,  by  conquest,  as  it  were  by  storm. 
He  saw  now  that  she  could  be  won  only  by  ser- 
vice, by  humbleness,  by  beautiful  sacrifice. 
From  her  eyes,  so  dear  and  lovely,  a  lovely 
spirit  looked.  Her  spirit  was  a  white  bird 
nested  among  golden  branches.  He  longed  to 
kneel  to  her,  to  cry  to  her,  to  put  from  him  the 
stains  of  the  five  years.  He  felt  like  a  bird 
beaten  from  covert,  with  a  broken  wing.  His 
five  years  had  not  helped  him ;  his  five  years  had 
rubbed  off  the  golden  plating,  which  had  hidden 
his  common  metal  from  the  eyes  of  the  world. 
The  assurance  of  the  common  nature,  the  assur- 
ance of  the  beast  that  lusts  -and  snarls,  was  no 
fit  plume  for  the  knight  of  such  a  woman.  She 
had  walked  the  fire.  That  lovely  heart  had 
achieved  the  heavenly  alchemy;  the  bird  in  her 
sang;  the  perfect  clay  had  burned  into  the 
divine  gold.  From  the  ashes  of  her  conquered 
self  rose  up  the  flowers.  She  was  a  heavenly 
citizen,  this  beautiful  lady.  The  blood  came 
and  went  upon  his  cheeks,  and  the  words  choked 
him,  as  he  looked  upon  her.  He,  too,  long  ago, 
made  holy  by  his  love  of  her,  had  lived  in  para- 


£8  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

disc.  He  had  given  his  Idea  for  a  common 
flower  of  the  hedge,  while  the  golden  rose  blos- 
somed by  him.  He  went  out  from  the  great 
house,  into  the  autumn  day,  ashamed  and 
humbled;  the  sword  of  her  beauty  hacking  the 
brambles  from  his  soul.  "  I  am  fallen  among 
the  brambles,"  he  sighed.  "  I  am  blackened 
and  ashamed."  His  mind  burned  with  the 
memory  of  her  beauty.  Her  beauty  was  still  a 
beacon  to  him.  By  the  light  of  her  beauty  he 
could  see  the  briars  and  brambles  lying  in  a 
tangle  of  thorns  to  shut  him  from  the  golden 
door. 


n 
A  WHITE  NIGHT 

SOMETIMES,  when  I  am  idle,  my  mind  fills  with  a 
vivid  memory.  Some  old  night  at  sea,  or  in  a 
tavern,  or  on  the  roads,  or  some  adventure  half 
forgotten,  rises  up  in  sharp  detail,  alive  with 
meaning.  The  thing  or  image,  whatever  it  may 
be,  comes  back  to  me  so  clearly  outlined,  under 
such  strong  light,  that  it  is  as  though  the  act 
were  playing  before  me  on  a  lighted  stage. 
Such  a  memory  always  appears  to  me  signifi- 
cant, like  certain  dreams.  I  find  myself  think- 
ing of  an  old  adventure,  a  day  in  a  boat,  a  walk 
by  still  waters,  the  crying  of  curlews,  or  the 
call  of  wild  swans,  as  though  such  memories, 
rather  than  the  great  events  in  life,  were  the 
things  deeply  significant.  I  think  of  a  day  be- 
side a  pool  where  the  tattered  reeds  were  shak- 
ing, and  a  fish  leapt,  making  rings,  as  though 
the  day  were  a  great  poem  which  I  had  written. 
I  can  think  of  a  walk  by  twilight,  among 
bracken  and  slowly  moving  deer,  under  a  Sep- 
29 


30  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

tember  moonrise,  till  I  am  almost  startled  to 
find  myself  indoors.  For  the  most  part  my 
significant  memories  are  <5f  the  sea.  Three 
such  memories,  constantly  recurring,  appear  to 
me  as  direct  revelations  of  something  too  great 
for  human  comprehension.  The  deeds  or 
events  they  image  were  little  in  themselves,  how- 
ever pleasant  in  the  doing,  and  I  know  no 
reason  why  they  should  haunt  me  so  strangely, 
so  many  years  after  they  occurred. 

One  winter  night,  fourteen  years  ago,  I  was 
aboard  a  ship  then  lying  at  anchor  in  a  great 
river.  It  was  a  fine  night,  full  of  stars,  but 
moonless.  There  was  no  wind;  but  a  strong 
tide  was  running;  and  a  suck  and  gurgle 
sounded  all  along  the  ship's  length,  from  the 
bows  to  the  man-catcher.  I  had  been  dancing 
below-decks  by  lamplight  with  my  shipmates, 
and  had  come  up  for  a  turn  in  the  air  before 
going  to  my  hammock.  As  I  walked  the  deck, 
under  the  rigging,  with  my  friend,  a  pipe 
sounded  from  below.  "  Away  third  cutters." 
I  was  the  stroke  oar  of  the  third  cutter,  and  I 
remembered  then  that  a  man  had  been  dining 
with  the  captain,  and  that  he  would  be  going 
ashore,  and  that  he  would  need  a  red-baize 


A  WHITE  NIGHT  31 

cushion  to  sit  upon,  and  a  boat-rug  to  cover  his 
knees.  I  ran  below  to  get  these  things,  and  to 
haul  the  boat  alongside  from  her  boom.  As  I 
stepped  into  her  with  the  gear,  I  heard  the 
coxswain  speaking  to  the  officer  of  the  watch. 
"  It's  coming  on  very  hazy,  sir.  Shall  I  take 
the  boat's  compass  and  the  lantern?  " 

I  noticed  then  that  it  was  growing  very  hazy. 
The  lights  of  the  ship  were  burning  dim,  and  I 
could  not  see  a  long  line  of  lights,  marking  a 
wharf,  which  had  shone  clearly  but  a  few  mo- 
ments before.  I  put  the  cushion  in  the  stern- 
sheets  and  arranged  the  rug  for  the  visitor,  and 
then  stood  up  in  my  place,  holding  the  boat  to 
the  gangway  by  the  manrope.  The  coxswain 
came  shambling  down  the  ladder  with  his  lan- 
tern and  compass.  The  officer  in  charge  of  the 
boat  came  after  him,  with  his  oilskins  on  his 
arm.  Then  came  the  visitor,  a  tall,  red-haired 
man,  who  bumped  his  hat  off  while  coming 
through  the  entry-port.  I  could  see  the  ship's 
side  and  the  patches  of  yellow  light  at  her  ports, 
and  the  lieutenant  standing  on  the  gangway 
with  his  head  outlined  against  the  light. 

We  got  out  our  oars  and  shoved  off  through 
the  haze.  The  red-haired  man  took  out  a  cigar 


32  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

and  tried  to  light  it,  but  the  head  of  the  match 
came  off  and  burnt  his  fingers.  He  swore 
curtly.  The  officer  laughed.  "  Remember  the 
boat's  crew,"  he  said.  In  the  darkness,  amid 
the  gurgle  of  the  running  water,  over  which  the 
haze  came  stealthily,  the  words  were  like  words 
heard  in  a  dream.  I  repeated  them  to  myself 
as  I  rowed,  wondering  where  I  had  heard  them 
before.  It  seemed  to  me  that  they  had  been 
said  before,  somewhere,  very  long  ago,  and  that 
if  I  could  remember  where  I  should  know  more 
than  any  man  knew.  I  tried  to  remember  where 
I  had  heard  them,  for  I  felt  that  there  was  but  a 
vague  film  between  me  and  a  great  secret.  I 
seemed  to  be  outside  a  door  opening  into  some 
strange  world.  The  door,  I  felt,  was  ajar,  and 
I  could  hear  strange  people  moving  just  within, 
and  I  knew  that  a  little  matter,  perhaps  an  act 
of  will,  perhaps  blind  chance,  would  fling  the 
door  wide,  in  blinding  light,  or  shut  it  in  my 
face.  The  rhythm  of  rowing,  like  all  rhythm, 
such  as  dancing,  or  poetry,  or  music,  had  taken 
me  beyond  myself.  The  coxswain  behind  the 
backboard,  with  his  head  nodding  down  over  the 
lantern,  and  the  two  men  beneath  him,  seemed  to 
have  become  inhuman.  I  myself  felt  more  than 


A  WHITE  NIGHT  S3 

human.  I  seemed  to  have  escaped  from  time. 
We  were  eternal  things,  rowing  slowly  through 
space,  upon  some  unfathomable  errand,  such  as 
the  Sphinx  might  send  to  some  occult  power, 
guarded  by  winged  bulls,  in  old  Chaldea. 

When  we  ran  alongside  the  jetty,  the  haze 
was  thick  behind  us,  like  a  grey  blanket  cover- 
ing the  river.  I  got  out  with  the  stern-fast, 
and  held  the  lantern  for  the  visitor  to  clamber 
out  by.  The  officer  ran  up  the  jetty  to  a  little 
shop  at  the  jetty  head  where  the  ship's  letters 
were  left.  The  visitor  thanked  me  for  my  help, 
and  said  "  Good  night,"  and  vanished  into  the 
mist.  His  steps  sounded  on  the  slippery  stones. 
They  showed  us  that  he  was  walking  gingerly. 
Dnce  he  struck  a  ringbolt  and  swore.  Then  he 
passed  the  officer,  and  the  two  exchanged  a  few 
parting  words.  I  thought  at  the  time  that  the 
casual  things  in  life  were  life's  greatest  mys- 
teries. It  seemed  as  though  something  had 
failed  to  happen ;  as  though  something  —  some- 
thing beautiful  —  had  been  kept  from  the  world 
by  some  blind  chance  or  wilful  fate.  Who  was 
the  red-haired  man,  I  wondered,  that  we,  who 
had  come  from  many  wanderings  and  many  sor- 
rows, should  take  him  to  our  memories  for  ever, 


34  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

for  no  shown  cause?  We  should  remember  him 
for  ever.  He  would  be  the  august  thing  of  that 
white  night's  rowing.  We  should  remember  him 
at  solemn  moments.  Perhaps  as  we  lay  a-dying 
we  should  remember  him.  He  had  said  good 
night  to  us  and  had  passed  on  up  the  jetty,  and 
we  did  not  know  who  he  was,  nor  what  he  was, 
and  we  should  be  gone  in  a  few  days'  time,  and 
we  should  never  see  him  again.  As  for  him, 
he  would  never  think  of  us  again.  He  would 
remember  his  dented  hat,  and  his  burnt  finger, 
and  perhaps,  if  it  had  been  very  good,  his  din- 
ner. 

When  we  shoved  off  again  for  the  ship  the 
haze  was  so  thick  that  we  could  not  see  three 
feet  in  front  of  us.  All  the  river  was  hidden  in 
a  coat  of  grey.  The  sirens  of  many  steamers 
hooted  mournfully  as  they  passed  up  or  down, 
unseen.  We  could  hear  the  bell-signals  from 
the  hulks,  half  a  mile  away.  Voices  came  out  of 
the  greyness,  from  nowhere  in  particular.  Men 
hailed  each  other  from  invisible  bridges.  A 
boat  passed  us  under  oars,  with  her  people  talk- 
ing. A  confused  noise  of  many  screws,  beating 
irregularly,  came  over  the  muffled  water.  They 
might  have  been  miles'  away  —  many  miles  — 


A  WHITE  NIGHT  35 

or  hard  upon  us.  It  is  impossible  to  judge  by 
sound  in  a  haze  so  thick.  We  rowed  on 
quietly  into  the  unknown. 

We  were  a  long  time  rowing,  for  we  did  not 
know  where  we  were,  and  the  tide  swept  us 
down,  and  the  bells  and  sirens  puzzled  us.  Once 
we  lay  on  our  oars  and  rocked  in  a  swell  while 
some  great  steamer  thrashed  past  hooting. 
The  bells  beat  now  near,  now  very  far  away. 
We  were  no  longer  human  beings,  but  things 
much  greater  or  much  less.  We  were  detached 
from  life  and  time.  We  had  become  elemental, 
like  the  fog  that  hid  us.  I  could  have  stayed 
in  the  boat  there,  rowing  through  the  haze,  for 
all  eternity.  The  grunt  of  the  rowlocks,  and 
the  wash  and  drip  of  the  oars,  and  the  measured 
breath  of  the  men  behind  me,  keeping  time  to 
me,  were  a  music  passing  harps.  The  strange- 
ness and  dimness  of  it  all,  and  the  halo  round 
the  coxswain's  lantern,  and  the  faces  half  seen, 
and  the  noises  sounding  from  all  sides  impressed 
me  like  a  revelation. 

"  Oars  a  minute,"  said  the  coxswain. 
"  There's  the  fog-bell."  ' 

Somewhere  out  of  the  grey  haze  a  little  silver 
bell  was  striking.  It  beat  four  strokes,  and 


paused,  and  then  again  four  strokes,  and  again 
a  pause,  from  some  place  high  above  us.  And 
then,  quite  near  to  us,  we  heard  the  long,  shrill 
call  of  a  pipe  and  a  great  stamp  of  feet  upon 
hatchways. 

"  Good  Lord !  we're  right  on  top  of  her,"  said 
the  officer.  "  I  see  her  boom.  Ship  ahoy !  " 

"Is  that  you,  Carter?" 

We  bumped  alongside,  and  held  her  there 
while  the  officer  and  coxswain  ran  up  the  gang- 
way with  the  letters.  We  laid  in  the  oars  and 
unshipped  the  rudder,  and  a  man  came  down 
the  gangway  for  the  red-baize  cushion  arid  the 
rug.  "  Hook  your  boat  on,"  said  the  officer 
of  the  watch. 

That  is  one  of  the  memories  which  come  back 
to  me,  when  I  am  idle,  with  the  reality  of  the 
deed  itself.  It  is  one  of  those  memories  which 
haunt  me,  as  symbols  of  something  unimagined, 
of  something  greater  than  life  expressed  in  life. 
Why  such  a  thing  should  haunt  me  I  cannot 
tell,  for  the  words,  now  they  are  written  down, 
seem  foolish.  Within  the  ivory  gate,  and  well 
without  it,  one  is  safe;  but  perhaps  one  must 
not  peep  through  the  opening  when  it  hangs 
for  a  little  while  ajar. 


ni 
BIG  JIM 

ONE  afternoon,  many  years  ago,  I  was  in  a 
Western  seaport,  with  a  day's  "  liberty  "  to  do 
what  I  liked.  There  were  few  attractions  in 
the  seaport  except  seamen's  dance-houses  and 
drinking  dens,  so  I  pushed  inland,  up  some  bar- 
ren sand-hills,  into  the  wilderness.  High  up 
among  the  hills  I  came  to  a  silver  mine,  with  a 
little  inn  or  wine  shop  close  to  the  shaft,  and 
(more  strange  in  that  desert)  a  sort  of  ever- 
green pine  tree  with  some  of  its  branches  still 
alive.  There  was  a  bench  near  the  door  of  the 
tavern,  so  I  sat  down  to  rest ;  and  I  remember 
looking  at  the  russet-coloured  earth  from  the 
shaft  and  wondering  whether  silver  mining  were 
hard  work  or  not.  I  had  had  enough  of  hard 
work  to  last  me  through  mv  time.  There  was 
a  view  over  the  sea  from  where  I  sat.  I  could 
see  the  anchorage  and  the  ships  and  a  few  rocks 
with  surf  about  them,  and  a  train  puffing  into 
37 


38  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

the  depot.  A  barquentine  was  being  towed  out 
by  a  little  dirty  tug ;  and  very  far  away,  shining 
in  the  sun,  an  island  rose  from  the  sea,  whitish, 
like  a  swimmer's  shoulder.  It  was  a  beautiful 
sight,  that  anchorage,  with  the  ships  lying  there 
so  lovely,  all  their  troubles  at  an  end.  But  I 
knew  that  aboard  each  ship  there  were  young 
men  going  to  the  devil,  and  mature  men  wasted, 
and  old  men  wrecked;  and  I  wondered  at  the 
misery  and  sin  which  went  to  make  each  ship  so 
perfect  an  image  of  beauty.  As  I  sat  thinking 
I  heard  voices  inside  the  tavern,  and  a  noise  of 
crying  —  the  high,  one  might  almost  call  it 
griefless,  crying  of  a  native  woman.  Some  one 
came  to  the  door  and  looked  at  me  once  or 
twice ;  but  I  felt  this  rather  than  saw  it,  for  my 
back  was  to  the  door  and  I  did  not  care  to  look 
round.  Presently  I  stood  up  and  went  into  the 
tavern,  to  a  curious  company. 

It  was  a  rather  large,  bare  drinking  bar,  with 
an  earthen  floor  and  adobe  walls.  The  bar 
was  made  of  a  few  deal  planks  nailed  to  some 
barrels.  Behind  it  there  were  some  shelves  of 
bottles  and  a  cask  or  two,  and  a  few  mugs,  pan- 
nikins, and  cigar  boxes.  It  was  like  most  low 
drinking  shops ;  but  it  was  perhaps  a  shade 


BIG  JIM  39 

more  bare  than  the  general  run.     What  inter- 
ested me  was  the  company. 

As  I  entered  I  noticed  that  they  all  looked  at 
me  rather  hard,  and  then  looked  at  each  other 
with  quick,  questioning  glances.  They  were  not 
a  difficult  crowd  to  place.  They  were  English 
and  American  merchant  seamen  who  had  de- 
serted their  ships  and  come  mining  for  a  change. 
But  from  the  way  they  looked  at  me  it  was  plain 
that  there  was  something  wrong,  and  the  some- 
thing was  a  dead  body  lying  in  -a  corner,  half 
covered  by  a  woman's  skirt.  By  the  body,  a 
half-naked  woman  crouched,  wailing  in  a  high, 
shrill  key,  which  was  somehow  not  at  all  affect- 
ing, as  it  did  not  seem  to  have  a  passion  in  it. 
The  body  was  that  of  a  big,  handsome  man,  evi- 
dently the  woman's  lover.  It  gave  me  a  kind 
of  awe  when  I  saw  that  he  had  a  moustache  but 
no  beard,  for  I  knew  then  that  the  man  had  been 
a  lover  of  women  ;  because  no  man  would  trouble 
to  shave  in  such  a  place  without  that  spur  to 
his  vanity.  Something  told  me  that  the  man 
had  died  a  violent  death ;  but  in  that  country 
such  deaths  were  common.  One  of  the  seamen 
came  up  to  me  and  served  me  with  a  pannikin 
of  wine ;  he  seemed  to  be  the  proprietor.  "  It 


40  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

was  a  fight,"  he  said  simply,  seeing  me  look  at 
the  body.  "  This  morning,"  he  added,  "  a 
Chilanean  done  it."  "  Who  was  he?  "  I  asked. 
"  They  call  him  Big  Jim,"  he  answered.  "  He 
was  a  big  feller,  too;  an  Englishman,  I  guess. 
A  miner."  "  He  swallowed  the  anchor,"  said 
another  seaman.  "  He  come  here  in  a  barque," 
said  a  third.  "  They  got  scrapping,"  said  the 
fourth.  "  Over  the  gell,  they  got  scrapping. 
Der  Chilanean  give  'im  just  one  lick,  an'  Jim 
quit.  There's  the  knife  done  it."  He  jerked 
his  head  towards  the  corner  where  the  body 
lay;  and  there,  on  the  mud  floor,  was  a  com- 
mon vaquero's  dagger,  with  a  handle  stuck 
about  with  silver  knobs,  and  a  broad,  curving, 
pointed  blade.  "  That  was  the  knife  done  it." 
By  and  by  another  miner  came  loping  down 
the  track  to  the  tavern.  He  rode  an  old  mule, 
and  carried  a  shovel,  which  he  had  borrowed 
from  a  friend.  He  ate  some  bread,  and  drank  a 
little  wine  from  the  pannikin;  and  then  we  all 
turned  out  into  the  air  to  dig  Jim  a  grave  un- 
der the  forlorn  evergreen.  It  was  easy  shovel- 
ling in  that  light  sandy  earth;  the  grave  was 
soon  ready.  We  went  back  to  the  house '  to 
fetch  the  body.  The  woman  was  still  wailing 


BIG  JIM  41 

there  in  her  passipnless  thin  monotone.  I  be- 
lieve she  hadn't  moved  since  I  entered.  We  had 
to  lift  her  from  the  body,  for  we  could  not  make 
her  understand;  she  was  cowed  or  da/ed;  she 
made  no  protest,  only  wailed  and  wailed  like  a 
hurt  negro  —  exactly  like  a  hurt  negro ;  she 
must  have  been  part  negro,  a  quadroon,  per- 
haps. One  of  the  men  asked  if  the  skirt  which 
covered  Jim  should  be  buried  with  him.  "  Ah, 
no ;  leave  it  for  the  gell,"  said  one  of  them  ;  "  it's 
all  the  skirt  she  has." 

When  we  laid  the  body  in  the  grave  the  sun 
was  about  to  set ;  and  the  burial  party  seemed 
touched  and  unwilling  to  cover  the  dead  with 
earth.  "  I  seen  him  stan'  just  where  he  is  ly- 
ing," said  one  of  them.  "  And  I  seen  him. 
Only  yesterday,"  said  another.  "  Funny  his 
being  dead  now  and  not  seeing  nothing,"  said 
the  third.  "  I  guess  he  didn't  think  nawthen  of 
dying  when  he  t'r'un  out  dis  morning."  "  It 
gives  one  rather  a  turn,"  said  the  first.  "  There 
was  Jim.  Look  what  arms  he  got.  He  could 
do  a  big  day's  work,  Jim  could."  "  Well,  he 
done  his  last  day's  work  now,  Jim  has."  "  Ah," 
they  said,  more  or  less  together,  "  he's  touched 
his  pay,  Jim  has." 


42  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

Little  by  little  the  visitor  got  some  knowl- 
edge of  Jim  as  a  man  and  a  comrade.  He 
wasn't  a  drinker,  he  didn't  care  for  tobacco, 
didn't  use  it  in  any  shape.  It  was  girls  done 
Jim.  He  was  a  man  of  education.  "  If  I'd  had 
the  education  what  Jim  had  I  wouldn't  be  work- 
ing down  no  silver  mine  " —  that  was  what  one 
or  two  of  them  told  me.  "  He  was  a  hard  case 
with  it,"  said  another ;  "  he  never  wear  more 
than  his  oilskins  off  the  Horn.  I  seen  him 
stand  his  look-out  with  only  trousers  on.  I 
seen  it  snowing  on  his  chest."  "  He'd  got  a  fine 
chest  on  him,  too,"  said  another ;  "  I  seen  him 
lift  'alf  a  ton."  "  Go  on  with  your  'alf  tons," 
said  one ;  "  no  man  could  lift  that."  "  He  was 
strong  all  right,  though,"  said  the  first ;  "  'e 
could  carry  more  than  a  lanchero."  After  this 
some  one  wondered  if  the  dead  man's  spirit 
could  see  us ;  for  now  that  the  sun  was  setting 
the  light  was  beginning  to  fade,  and  I  know 
that  we  all  felt  the  solemnity  of  life  and  death, 
and  the  certainty  that  we,  too,  in  time  would  lie 
helpless,  even  as  Jim  lay.  The  thought  came 
to  us  that  it  would  be  strange  to  the  body  to  lie 
in  a  grave  after  so  long  roving  on  the  world; 
and  to  see  no  fellow-man,  to  be  shut  away  from 


BIG  JIM  43 

companions,  after  the  long  life  with  companions, 
after  the  days  of  love  and  unselfish  tending. 
It  would  be  strange  to  the  soul,  too,  we  thought, 
to  be  loose  at  last  from  the  old  servant  and 
gaoler,  and  to  be  like  a  wild  bird  again,  flying 
through  the  world,  nesting  in  no  haunt  of  men, 
tortured  perhaps,  perhaps  exultant.  The  gen- 
eral feeling  was  that  God  wouldn't  be  hard  on 
Jim ;  and  the  words  (whatever  they  may  seem) 
were  tenderly  and  reverently  spoken.  To  live 
hard,  work  hard,  die  hard,  and  go  to  hell  in 
the  end  would  be  hard  indeed.  "  It  would 
that,"  said  the  others.  That  was  Big  Jim's 
burial  service. 

We  laid  a  handkerchief  over  the  face,  so  that 
the  earth  might  not  touch  the  flesh.  Then,  with 
our  shovel  we  covered  the  body,  and  heaped  the 
grave  with  a  little  pile  of  earth,  and  nailed  a 
batten,  torn  from  a  packing-case,  across  the 
pine  tree  at  his  head.  We  had  no  pistol  for  a 
volley,  and  it  was  not  for  the  likes  of  us  to  say 
a  prayer,  we  being  still  ourselves,  and  Jim  being 
something  beyond  us.  We  stood  about  the 
grave  a  moment,  wondering  where  he  came  from 
and  whether  he  had  any  people.  Then  we 
went  back  to  the  tavern,  to  a  meal  of  bread,  red 


44  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

wine,  and  bad  dried  figs,  brought  from  the  sacks 
and  skins  which  Jim  had  carried  up  from  town 
less  than  a  day  before. 

When  I  sailed  from  that  port  I  went  aloft  to 
see  the  last  of  the  silver  mine.  I  could  see  it, 
in  the  clear  light,  quite  plainly ;  and  I  could  see 
the  one  evergreen  marking  the  grave.  The 
chance  meetings  of  life  are  full  of  mystery,  and 
this  chance  adventure,  with  its  sadness  and 
beauty,  will  always  move  me.  The  evergreen 
must  be  dead  by  this  time,  and  perhaps  the  mine 
will  be  worked  out  and  the  tavern  gone.  Big 
Jim  will  lie  quietly,  with  the  surf  roaring  very 
far  below  him,  and  no  man  near  him  at  any  time 
save  the  muleteers,  with  their  bell-mares  and 
songs,  going  over  the  pass  into  the  desert. 


IV 
EL  DORADO 

THE  night  had  fallen  over  the  harbour  before 
the  winch  began  to  rattle.  The  stars  came  out, 
calm  and  golden,  shaking  little  tracks  in  the 
sea.  In  the  tiers  of  ships  shone  the  riding- 
lights.  To  the  westward,  where  tne  Point 
jutted  out,  the  great  golden  light  of  Negra 
winked  and  glimmered  as  it  revolved.  It  was  a 
still  night  but  for  the  noise  of  the  surf,  which 
beat  continually,  like  the  marching  of  an  army, 
along  the  line  of  the  coast.  In  one  of  the  tiers 
of  ships  there  was  a  sing-song.  A  crew  had 
gathered  on  the  forecastle  head,  to  beat  their 
pannikins  to  the  stars.  The  words  of  their 
song  floated  out  into  the  darkness,  full  of  a 
haunting  beauty  which  thrilled  and  satisfied  me. 
There  was  something  in  the  night,  in  the  air,  in 
the  beauty  of  the  town,  and  in  the  sweetness  of 
the  sailors'  singing,  which  made  me  sorry  to  be 
leaving.  I  should  have  liked  to  have  gone 

ashore  again,  to  the  Calle  del  Inca,  where  the 
45 


46  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

cafes  and  taverns  stood.  I  should  have  liked  to 
have  seen  those  stately  pale  women,  in  their 
black  robes,  with  the  scarlet  roses  in  their  hair, 
swaying  slowly  on  the  stage  to  the  clicking  of 
the  castanets.  I  should  have  liked  to  have 
taken  part  in  another  wild  dance  among  the 
tables  of  the  wine  shops.  I  was  sorry  to  be 
leaving. 

When  the  winch  began  to  clank,  as  the  cable 
was  hove  in,  I  gathered  up  my  lead-line,  and 
went  to  the  leadsman's  dicky,  or  little  project- 
ing platform,  on  the  starboard  side.  I  was  to 
be  the  leadsman  that  night,  and  as  we  should 
soon  be  moving,  I  made  the  breast-rope  secure, 
and  stood  by. 

Presently  the  bell  of  the  engine-room  clanged, 
and  there  came  a  wash  abaft  as  the  screws 
thrashed.  The  ship  trembled,  as  the  turbulent 
trampling  of  the  engines  shook  her.  The  bell 
clanged  again ;  the  water  below  me  gleamed  and  - 
whitened;  the  dark  body  of  the  steamer,  with 
her  lines  of  lit  ports,  swept  slowly  across  the 
lights  in  the  harbour.  The  trampling  of  the 
engines  steadied,  and  took  to  itself  a  rhythm. 
We  were  off.  I  cast  an  eye  astern  at  the  little 
town  I  was  so  sad  to  leave,  and  caught  a  glimpse 


EL  DORADO  47 

of  a  path  of  churned  water,  broadening  astern 
of  us.  A  voice  sounded  from  the  promenade 
deck  behind  me.  "  Zat  light,  what  you  call 
'eem?" 

I  could  not  answer.  My  orders  were  to  keep 
strict  silence.  The  point  of  an  umbrella  took 
me  sharply  below  the  shoulders.  "  What  you 
call  'eem  —  zat  light  ?  Ze  light  zere  ?  " 

I  wondered  if  I  could  swing  my  lead  on  to 
him ;  it  was  worth  trying.  Again  came  the  um- 
brella; and  again  the  bell  of  the  engine- room 
clanged. 

"Are  you  ready  there  with  the  lead?  "  came 
the  mate's  voice  above  me.  "  All  ready  with  the 
lead,  sir."  "  What  have  we  now?  "  I  gathered 
forward  and  swung  the  lead.  I  could  not  reach 
the  umbrella-man,  even  with  my  spare  line. 
Once,  twice,  thrice  I  swung,  and  pitched  the 
plummet  well  forward  into  the  bow  wash. 

"  By  the  deep,  eight,  sir." 

Again  the  bell  clanged;  the  ship  seemed  to 
tremble  and  stop.  "  Another  cast  now, 
quickly."  "  And  a  half,  seven,  sir."  As  I 
hauled  in,  I  again  tasted  the  umbrella,  and  an- 
other question  came  to  me :  "  What  'ave  you  do  ? 
Why  'ave  you  do  zat  ?  "  I  swore  under  my 


48  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

breath.  "  Are  you  asleep  there,  leadsman  ?  " 
The  mate  was  biting  his  finger-ends.  I  sent  the 
lead  viciously  into  the  sea.  "  Quarter  less 
seven,  sir."  "  Another  cast,  smartly,  now." 
Rapidly  I  hauled  in,  humming  an  old  ballad  to 
myself.  "  We'll  have  the  ship  ashore,"  I  re- 
peated. There  was  a  step  on  the  deck  behind 
me,  and  again  came  the  voice :  "  Ze  man,  ze  man 
zere,  what  'ave  he  do?  Why  'ave  'e  go  like 
so?  "  "  Won't  you  pass  further  aft,  sir?  "  said 
a  suave  voice.  "  You're  interrup'in'  the  leads- 
man." It  was  one  of  the  quartermasters. 
Once  again  the  lead  flew  forward.  "  By  the 
mark,  seven,  sir." 

There  was  a  pause;  then  came  the  voice 
again :  "  I  go  zees  way  ?  "  "  Yes,  zees  way," 
said  the  quartermaster.  The  steps  of  the  um- 
brella-man passed  away  aft.  "  Zees  way,"  said 
the  quartermaster,  under  his  breath,  "  zees  way ! 
You  gawdem  Dago !  "  I  could  have  hugged  the 
fellow. 

"  What  now?  "  said  the  old  man,  leaning  over 
from  the  bridge.  I  cast  again.  "  And  a  half, 
eight,  sir."  "  We're  clear,"  said  the  voice 
above  me.  "  'Speed  ahead,  Mr.  Jenkins."  I 
gathered  up  my  line.  The  engine-room  bell 


EL  DORADO  49 

clanged  once  more ;  the  ship  seemed  to  leap  sud- 
denly forward.  In  a  few  seconds,  even  as  I 
coiled  my  line,  the  bow  wash  broadened  to  a 
roaring  water.  The  white  of  it  glimmered  and 
boiled,  and  spun  away  from  us,  streaked  with 
fires.  Across  the  stars  above  us  the  mists  from 
the  smoke-stack  stretched  in  a  broad  cloud. 
Below  me  the  engines  trampled  thunderously. 
Ahead  there  were  the  lights,  and  the  figure  of 
the  look-out,  and  the  rush  and  hurry  of  the 
water.  Astern,  far  astern  already,  were  the 
port,  the  ships  at  anchor,  and  the  winking  light 
on  the  Point.  A  bugle  abaft  called  the  passen- 
gers to  dinner,  and  I  watched  them  as  they  went 
from  their  cabins.  A  lady,  in  a  blue  gown,  with 
a  shawl  round  her  head,  was  talking  to  a  man  in 
evening  dress.  "  Isn't  it  interesting,"  she  re- 
marked, "  to  hear  them  making  the  soundings?  " 
The  white  shirt  was  politely  non-committal. 
"  Aft  there,  two  of  you,"  said  a  hard  voice, 
"  and  trice  the  ladder  up.  Smartly  now." 
The  lady  in  the  blue  dress  stopped  to  watch 
us. 

I  did  not  see  the  umbrella-man  again,  until 
the  next  day,  when  I  passed  him  on  the  hurri- 
cane deck.  He  was  looking  at  the  coast 


50  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

through  a  pair  of  binoculars.  We  were  run- 
ning to  the  north,  in  perfect  Pacific  weather, 
under  a  soft  blue  sky  that  was  patrolled  by  little 
soft  white  clouds.  The  land  lay  broad  to  star- 
board, a  land  of  yellow  hills,  with  surf-beaten 
outliers  of  black  reef.  Here  and  there  we 
passed  villages  in  the  watered  valleys,  each  with 
its  whitewashed  church  and  copper  smeltry. 
The  umbrella-man  was  looking  beyond  these,  at 
the  hills. 

He  was  a  little  man,  this  man  who  had 
prodded  me,  with  a  long,  pale  face  and  pale  eyes, 
a  long,  reddish  beard,  and  hair  rather  darker, 
both  hair  and  beard  being  sparse.  He  was  a 
fidgety  person,  always  twitching  with  his  hands, 
and  he  walked  with  something  of  a  strut, 
as  though  the  earth  belonged  to  him.  He 
snapped-to  the  case  of  his  binoculars  as  though 
he  had  sheathed  a  sword. 

Later  in  the  day,  after  supper,  in  the  second 
dog-watch,  as  I  sat  smoking  on  the  fore-coam- 
ings, he  came  up  to  me  and  spoke  to  me.  "  You 
know  zees  coas'?  "  he  asked.  Yes,  I  knew  the 
coast.  "  What  you  zink  ?  "  he  asked ;  "  you 
like  'eem?"  No,  I  didn't  like  >eem.  "Ah," 
he  said,  "  you  'ave  been  wizzin  ?  "  I  asked  him 


EL  DORADO  51 

what  he  meant.  "  Wizzin,"  he  repeated,  "  wiz~ 
zen,  in  ze  contry.  You  'ave  know  ze  land,  ze 
peoples?  "  I  growled  that  I  had  been  within, 
to  Lima,  and  to  Santiago,  and  that  I  had  been 
ashore  at  the  Chincha  Islands.  "  Ah,"  he  said, 
with  a  strange  quickening  of  interest,  "  you 
'ave  been  to  Lima;  you  like  'eem?"  No,  I 
didn't  like  'eem.  "  But  you  'ave  been  wizzin, 
wizzin  Lima,  wizzin  ze  contry?  "  No,  I  had 
not.  "  I  go  wizzin,"  he  said  proudly.  "  It  is 
because  I  go;  zat  is  why  I  ask.  Zere  is  few 
'ave  gone  wizzen."  An  old  quartermaster 
walked  up  to  us.  "  There's  very  few  come 

back,    sir,"    he    said.     "  Them    Indians " 

"  Ah,  ze  Indians,"  said  the  little  man  scorn- 
fully, "  ze  Indians ;  I  zeenk  nozzin  of  ze  In- 
dians." "  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  old  sailor, 
"  they're  a  tough  crowd,  them  copper  fellers." 
"  I  no  understan',"  said  the  Frenchman. 
"  They  pickle  people's  heads,"  said  the  old 
sailor,  "  in  the  sand  or  somethin'.  They  keep 
for  ever  pretty  near  when  once  they're  pickled. 
They  pickle  every  one's  head  and  sell  'em  in 
Lima;  I've  knowed  'em  get  a  matter  of  three 
pound  for  a  good  head."  "  Heads  ?  "  said  an- 
other sailor.  "  I  had  one  myself  once.  I  got 


52  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

it  at  Tacna,  but  it  wasn't  properly  pickled  or 
something  —  it  was  a  red-headed  beggar  the 
chap  as  owned  it  —  I  had  to  throw  it  away.  It 
got  too  strong  for  the  crowd,"  he  explained. 
"  Ah,  zose  Indians,"  said  the  Frenchman.  "  I 
'ave  'card ;  zey  tell  me,  zey  tell  me  at  Valparaiso. 
But  ah,  it  ees  a  fool;  it  ees  a  fool;  zere  is  no 
Indians."  "  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  old 
sailor,  "but  if  you  go  up  among  them  jokers, 
you'll  have  to  watch  out  they  don't  pickle  you. 
You'll  have  to  look  slippy  with  a  gun,  sir." 
"  Ah,  a  gon,"  he  answered,  "  a  gon.  I  was  not 
to  be  bozzered  wiz  a  gon.  I  'ave  what  you  call 
'eem  —  peestol."  He  produced  a  boy's  der- 
ringer, which  might  have  cost  about  ten  dollars, 
Spanish  dollars,  in  the  pawnshops  of  Santiago. 
"  Peestol,"  murmured  a  sailor,  gasping,  as  he 
shambled  forward  to  laugh,  "  peestol,  the  gaw- 
dem  Dago's  balmy." 

During  the  next  few  days  I  saw  the  French- 
man frequently.  He  was  a  wonder  to  us,  and 
his  plans  were  discussed  at  every  meal,  and  in 
every  watch  below.  In  the  dog-watches  he 
would  come  forward,  with  his  eternal  questions : 
"  What  is  wizzin?  In  ze  contry?  "  We  would 
tell  him,  "  Indians,"  or  "  highwaymen,"  or  "  a 


EL  DORADO  53 

push  of  highbinders  " ;  and  he  would  answer : 
"  It  ees  nozzin,  it  ees  a  fool."  Once  he  asked 
us  if  we  had  heard  of  any  gold  being  found 
"  wizzin."  "  Gold?  "  said  one  of  us.  "  Gold? 
O'  course  there's  gold,  any  God's  quantity. 
Them  Incas  ate  gold;  they're  buried  in  it." 
"  'Ave  you  know  zem,  ze  Incas  ?  "  he  asked 
eagerly.  "  I  seen  a  tomb  of  theirs  once,"  said 
tht  -ailor ;  "  it  were  in  a  cave,  like  the  f o'c'sle 
yonder,  and  full  of  knittin'-needles."  "  What 
is  zem  ? "  said  the  Frenchman.  The  sailor 
shambled  below  to  his  chest,  and  returned  with 
a  handful  of  little  sticks  round  which  some  balls 
of  coloured  threads  were  bound.  "  Knittin'- 
needles,"  said  the  sailor.  "  Them  ain't  no  knit- 
tin'-needles," said  another ;  "  them's  their  way 
of  writin'."  "  Go  on  with  yer,"  said  the  first ; 
"  them's  knittin'-needles.  Writin'?  How  could 
them  be  writin'?  "  "  Well,  I  heard  tell  once," 
replied  the  other.  "  It  ees  zeir  way  of  writing," 
said  the  Frenchman ;  "  I  'ave  seen ;  zat  is  zeir 
way  of  writing;  ze  knots  is  zeir  letters." 
"  Bleedin'  funny  letters,  I  call  'em,"  said  the 
needles-theorist.  "  You  and  your  needles,"  said 
the  other.  "  Now,  what  d'ye  call  'em?  "  The 
bell  upon  the  bridge  clanged.  "  Eight  bells," 


54  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

said  the  company ;  "  aft  to  muster,  boys." 
The  bugle  at  the  saloon-door  announced  supper. 

We  were  getting  pretty  well  to  the  north  — 
Mollendo,  or  thereabouts  —  when  I  had  my  last 
conversation  with  the  Frenchman.  He  came  up 
to  me  one  night,  as  I  sat  on  the  deck  to  leeward 
of  the  winch,  keeping  the  first  watch  as  snugly 
as  I  could.  "  You  know  zees  coast  long?  "  he 
asked.  I  had  not.  Then  came  the  never-ceas- 
ing, "  'Ave  you  know  of  ze  Incas?  "  Yes,  lot 
of  general  talk;  and  I  had  seen  Inca  curios, 
mostly  earthenware,  in  every  port  in  Peru. 
"  You  'ave  seen  gold  ?  "  No ;  there  was  never 
any  gold.  The  Spaniards  made  a  pretty  gen- 
eral average  of  any  gold  there  was.  "  It  ees  a 
fool,"  he  answered.  "  I  tell  you,"  he  went  on, 
"  it  ees  a  fool.  Zey  have  say  zat ;  zey  'ave  all 
say  zat ;  it  ees  a  fool.  Zere  is  gold.  Zere  is  a 
hundred  million  pounds ;  zere  is  twenty  tousan' 
million  dollars ;  zere  is  El  Dorado.  Beyond  ze 
mountains  zere  is  El  Dorado ;  zere  is  a  town 
of  gold.  Zey  say  zere  is  no  gold?  Zere  is.  I 
go  to  find  ze  gold;  zat  is  what  I  do;  I  fin'  ze 
gold,  I,  Paul  Bac."  "  Alone?  "  I  asked.  "  I, 
Paul  Bac,"  he  answered. 

I  looked  at  him  a  moment.     He  was  a  little 


EL  DORADO  55 

red-haired  man,  slightly  made,  but  alert  and 
active-looking.  He  knew  no  Spanish,  no  In- 
dian dialects,  and  he  had  no  comrade.  I  told 
him  that  I  thought  he  didn't  know  what  he  was 
doing.  "  Ha  !  "  he  said.  "  Listen :  I  go  to 
Payta ;  I  go  by  train  to  Chito ;  zen  I  reach  ze 
Morona  River;  from  zere  I  reach  Marinha. 
Listen :  El  Dorado  is  between  ze  Caqueta  and  ze 
Putumayo  Rivers,  in  ze  forest."  I  would  have 
asked  him  how  he  knew,  but  I  had  to  break  away 
to  relieve  the  look-out.  I  wished  the  little  man 
good  night ;  I  never  spoke  with  him  again. 

I  thought  of  him  all  that  watch,  as  I  kept 
scanning  the  seas.  I  should  be  going  up  and 
down,  I  thought,  landing  passengers  through 
surf,  or  swaying  bananas  out  of  launches,  or 
crying  the  sounds  as  we  came  to  moorings.  He 
would  be  going  on  under  the  stars,  full  of  un- 
quenchable hope,  stumbling  on  the  bones  of 
kings.  He  would  be  wading  across  bogs, 
through  rivers  and  swamps,  through  unutterable 
and  deathly  places,  singing  some  song,  and 
thinking  of  the  golden  city.  He  was  a  pilgrim, 
a  poet,  a  person  to  reverence.  And  if  he  got 
there,  if  he  found  El  Dorado  —  but  that  was 
absurd.  I  thought  of  him  sadly,  with  the  feel- 


56  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

ing  that  he  had  learned  how  to  live,  and  that  he 
would  die  by  applying  his  knowledge.  I  won- 
dered how  he  would  die.  He  would  be  alone 
there,  in  the  tangle,  stumbling  across  creepers. 
The  poisoned  dart  would  hit  him  in  the  back, 
from  the  long,  polished  blow-pipe,  such  as  I  had 
seen  in  the  museums.  He  would  fall  on  his  face, 
among  the  jungle.  Then  the  silent  Indian 
would  hack  off  his  head  with  a  flint,  and  pickle 
it  for  the  Lima  markets.  He  would  never  get 
to  the  Caqueta.  Or  perhaps  he  would  be  caught 
in  an  electric  storm,  an  aire,  as  they  call  them, 
and  be  stricken  down  among  the  hills  on  his  way 
to  Chito.  More  probably  he  would  die  of  hun- 
ger or  thirst,  as  so  many  had  died  before  him. 
I  remembered  a  cowboy  whom  I  had  found  un- 
der a  thorn  bush  in  the  Argentine.  Paul  Bac 
would  be  like  that  cowboy ;  he  would  run  short 
of  water,  and  kill  his  horse  for  the  blood,  and 
then  go  mad  and  die. 

I  was  in  my  bunk  when  he  went  ashore  at 
Payta,  but  a  fellow  in  the  other  watch  told  me 
how  he  left  the  ship.  There  was  a  discussion 
in  the  forecastle  that  night  as  to  the  way  the 
heads  were  prepared.  Some  said  it  was  sand; 


EL  DORADO  57 

some  said  it  was  the  leaf  of  the  puro  bush ;  one 
or  two  held  out  for  a  mixture  of  pepper  and 
nitrate.  One  man  speculated  as  to  the  probable 
price  the  head  would  fetch ;  and  the  general  vote 
was  for  two  younds,  or  two  pounds  ten.  "  It 
wouldn't  give  me  no  pleasure,"  said  one  of  us, 
"  to  have  that  ginger-nob  in  my  chest."  "  Nor 
me,  it  wouldn't,"  said  another ;  "  I  draw  the  line 
at  having  a  corpse  on  my  tobacker."  "  And  I 
do,"  said  several.  Clearly  the  Frenchman  was 
destined  for  a  town  museum. 

It  was  more  than  a  year  after  that  that  I 
heard  of  the  end  of  the  El  Dorado  hunter.  I 
was  in  New  York  when  I  heard  it,  serving  behind 
the  bar  of  a  saloon.  One  evening,  as  I  was  mix- 
ing cocktails,  I  heard  myself  hailed  by  a  cus- 
tomer; and  there  was  Billy  Neeld,  one  of  our 
quartermasters,  just  come  ashore  from  an  At- 
lantic Transport  boat.  We  had  a  drink  to- 
gether, and  yarned  of  old  times.  The  names 
of  our  old  shipmates  were  like  incantations. 
The  breathing  of  them  brought  the  past  before 
us;  the  past  which  was  so  recent,  yet  so  far 
away ;  the  past  which  is  so  dear  to  a  sailor  and 
so  depressing  to  a  landsman.  So  and  so  was 


58  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

dead,  and  Jimmy  had  gone  among  the  Islands, 
and  Dick  had  pulled  out  for  home  because  "  he 
couldn't  stick  that  Mr.  Jenkins."  Very  few  of 
them  remained  on  the  Coast ;  the  brothers  of  the 
Coast  are  a  shifty  crowd. 

"  D'ye  remember  the  Frenchman,"  I  asked, 
"  the  man  who  was  always  asking  about  the 
Incas?  "  "  The  ginger-headed  feller?  "  "  Yes, 
a  little  fellow."  "  A  red-headed,  ambitious  lit- 
tle runt  ?  I  remember  him,"  said  Billy ;  "  he  left 
us  at  Payta,  the  time  we  fouled  the  launch." 
"  That's  the  man,"  I  said ;  "  have  you  heard 
anything  of  him?  "  "  Oh,  he's  dead,  all  right," 
siaid  Billy.  "  His  mother  came  out  after  him ; 
there  was  a  piece  in  the  Chile  Times  about  him." 
"  He  was  killed,  I  suppose?  "  "  Yes,  them  In- 
dians got  him,  somewhere  in  Ecuador,  Tommy 
Hains  told  me.  They  got  his  head  back, 
though.  It  was  being  sold  in  the  streets;  his 
old  mother  offered  a  reward,  and  the  Dagoes 
got  it  back  for  her.  He's  dead  all  right,  he  is ; 
he  might  ha'  known  as  much,  going  alone  among 
them  Indians.  Dead?  I  guess  he  is  dead ;  none 
but  a  red-headed  runt'd  have  been  such  a  lunk 
as  to  try  it."  "  He  was  an  ambitious  lad,"  I 
said.  "  Yes,"  said  Billy,  "  he  was.  Them  am- 


EL  DORADO  59 

bitious  fellers,  they  want  the  earth,  and  they 
get  their  blooming  heads  pickled;  that's  what 
they  get  by  it.  Here's  happy  days,  young 
feller." 


ON  the  coast  of  Venezuela,  not  more  than 
thirty  miles  from  Rio  Chico,  between  the  mouth 
of  that  river  and  Cape  Codera,  there  is  an  in- 
dentation in  the  coast,  a  bay  a  mile  broad,  with 
a  sea  entrance  a  hundred  yards  across.  Be- 
yond the  beach  are  the  green  woods  of  the 
tropics,  starred  with  blossoms,  brilliant  with 
parrots,  musical  with  the  calling  of  the  bell- 
birds.  One  may  live  there  for  a  year  and  a  day, 
anchored  in  the  blue  calm  water,  yet  on  the  mor- 
row the  place  will  be  still  new,  still  alluring, 
magical.  Lying  there  on  a  ship's  deck,  in  sight 
of  all  that  beauty,  a  beauty  a  little  drowsy  and 
unreal,  in  the  strong  sunlight,  one  believes  all 
the  poetry  one  has  ever  read.  It  is  difficult  to 
lie  there,  hearing  the  water  plashing,  seeing  the 
still  green  woods,  like  a  wall  of  living  beauty, 
without  peopling  the  forest  ways  with  things 

not  quite  human.     One  expects  a  white  Dian  in 
60 


THE  PIRATES  OF  SANTA  ANNA     61 

a  leopard  skin  flying  with  flushed  face  after  a 
shy-eyed  fawn.  Or  a  centaur  in  a  patch  of 
herbs  stamping  his  hooves,  with  a  little  foal  at 
his  flank.  Or  a  satyr  lying  upon  moss,  crack- 
ing nuts  with  brown  teeth  and  piping  in  mock- 
ery of  the  bell-birds. 

But  as  a  matter  of  fact  no  one  lives  in  those 
woods,  except  perhaps  an  Indian  who  goes 
thither  now  and  again  to  kill  a  parrot  with  his 
blow-pipe.  The  woods  have  an  evil  name  all 
along  the  coast,  from  Gallinas  to  the  Mangles. 
They  are  populous  (the  tale  says)  with  troubled 
spirits  who  go  crying  there,  like  the  seagulls, 
all  night  long  under  the  moon.  Up  and  down 
the  jungle  one  may  hear  their  voices,  when  the 
night  has  fallen,  talking  old  Spanish  or  old 
English  or  old  French  in  a  shrill,  excited  way 
that  is  disconcerting  to  the  hearer.  Sometimes, 
especially  at  the  feasts  of  the  Church,  one  may 
hear  the  woods  ring  with  a  pitiful  wailing,  like 
the  wailing  of  many  wounded  hares.  Those  who 
put  ashore  there  at  these  times,  if  they  will  but 
walk  the  wood  at  night,  may  hear  voices  close 
beside  them,  voices  full  of  tears,  a  thing  pitiful 
to  listen  to,  coming  from  the  poor  ghosts  who 
throng  the  darkness. 


62  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

Late  in  the  seventeenth  century,  it  seems, 
there  was  a  Spanish  pirate,  named  Luis  of  the 
Scar,  who  had  once  been  a  Church  dignitary  at 
Caracas.  It  is  not  known  why  he  left  the 
Church,  but  some  think,  said  my  informant,  that 
he  fell  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  the  Gov- 
ernor. It  was  a  pity,  too,  for  he  was  a  learned 
man,  of  some  wealth,  and  young.  He  might 
have  grown  to  be  a  bishop  of  his  province  and 
had  a  tomb,  when  dead,  in  the  Cathedral.  But, 
loving  this  lady  as  he  did,  he  left  the  Church, 
asking  her  to  fly  with  him  to  one  of  the  islands 
in  the  sea,  where  they  might  marry  and  take 
ship  for  France.  She  was  a  pious  lady,  bred 
with  much  sanctity,  so  that  this  proposal  from 
a  priest  was  in  the  extreme  shocking  to  her. 
Producing  a  crucifix,  she  reminded  him  of  his 
vows,  to  which  he  answered  with  a  passionate 
Spanish  sonnet  written  by  the  poet  Caral. 
However,  she  would  none  of  him,  "  sonnet  nor 
prose  " ;  and  he,  poor  man-,  in  a  fit  of  anger, 
went  swearing  to  the  quays,  where  he  embarked 
on  a  turtler,  bound  for  the  Gulf  fisheries !  He 
took  to  drink,  while  at  sea,  to  beguile  the  mo- 
notony of  the  voyage  and  to  induce  forgetful- 
ness.  Off  the  Isle  of  Pines  he  was  captured  by 


THE  PIRATES  OF  SANTA  ANNA      63 

a  pirate,  then  bound  to  plunder  on  the  Main. 
The  pirate  was  a  Frenchman  who  had  sailed 
with  Pierre  le  Grand  in  the  old  buccaneering 
times. 

What  with  threats  and  some  wayward  incli- 
nation towards  that  kind  of  life,  Luis  became 
one  of  the  pirate's  crew,  being  initiated  shortly 
afterwards  by  the  old  ceremony  of  the  bull's 
blood.  A  bull  was  killed  and  a  copper  cauldron 
filled  with  his  blood,  while  the  pirates,  some  of 
whom  were  Negro,  some  Indian,  some  European, 
stood  solemnly  in  a  circle,  chanting  their  sea- 
songs.  By  the  light  of  torches  Luis  was  led  into 
the  circle,  to  where  the  cauldron  bubbled  above 
some  glowing  embers.  The  chief  of  the  pirates 
stripped  him  and  flung  his  clothes  among  the 
flames,  afterwards  splashing  blood  upon  him 
and  giving  him  a  suit  of  linen  clothes  that  had 
been  dyed  red  in  the  cauldron.  He  then  had  to 
drink  to  the  company,  super  naculam;  that  is, 
without  leaving  enough  heel-tap  to  drip  more 
than  one  drop  when  the  cup  was  inverted  over 
the  thumb-nail.  Having  passed  through  the 
ceremony,  he  was  bidden  to  select  a  comrade 
from  among  the  company,  with  whom  to  mess, 
work,  and  march  until  the  comradeship  should 


64  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

be  dissolved.  He  chose  as  his  comrade  an 
Englishman  whose  chest  was  blue  with  tattoo 
marks.  Then  the  company  went  aboard  to- 
gether, singing  their  songs ;  and  set  sail  again 
for  the  seas  with  their  black  banner  blowing 
up  above  them. 

After  some  years  of  piracy,  Luis  rose  to  be 
the  captain  of  the  gang,  and,  like  so  many 
pirate  captains,  he  strove  eagerly  to  found  upon 
the  mainland  some  little  haven  of  refuge  where 
he  might  rest  after  a  cruise.  He  hit  upon  the 
little  bay  we  have  mentioned,  near  Cape  Codera ; 
for  in  the  woods  there  he  might  cut  new  spars, 
and  in  the  bay  he  might  careen,  without  hin- 
drance from  the  King  of  Spain.  Like  the 
strange  French  pirate,  "  Captain  Mission," 
he  founded  a  little  township,  with  a  dock,  fort, 
and  arsenal,  all  trim  and  pretty,  where  he  ruled 
for  several  years,  amassing  much  wealth  by  his 
profession.  But  as  he  grew  older,  among  his 
wild  crew,  he  became  a  penitent,  and  sorrowed 
for  the  sins  he  had  committed  and  the  vows  he 
had  broken.  He  called  to  mind  the  great 
church  of  Caracas,  lit  dimly  by  the  yellow 
candles,  across  the  flames  of  which  the  incense 
wreathed  its  blue  smoke.  He  heard  again  the 


THE  PIRATES  OF  SANTA  ANNA     C5 

chanting  of  the  brothers  as  they  performed  the 
office,  after  the  bell  had  rung.  He  saw  the  lit- 
tle acolytes  in  their  dresses  of  red  and  white, 
and  remembered  the  eastern  window,  where 
Santa  Anna,  the  patron,  was  very  glorious  in 
coloured  glass. 

At  last  he  called  his  company  together  and 
preached  to  that  motley  gang  as  eloquently  as 
in  his  youth  he  had  preached  before  his  bishop. 
He  told  them  of  their  sins  and  bade  them  repent 
of  them,  begging  them  to  renounce  that  way  of 
life  before  it  was  too  late.  For  himself,  he  said, 
he  would  start  to  build  there  some  trim  chapel  to 
Santa  Anna,  his  old  patron,  that  so  he  might 
atone  his  sins  towards  her.  Those  who  cared 
for  this  world,  he  said,  might  take  the  ships  and 
go,  but  he  begged  those  who  repented  to  stay  to 
aid  the  pious  work.  He  so  won  upon  them 
that  not  more  than  twenty  of  those  rough  men 
thought  fit  to  jeer  at  him.  All  the  others  re- 
pented with  the  fervour  of  primitive  people,  and 
the  building  of  the  votive  chapel  began  that 
afternoon.  In  six  months  it  was  completed, 
painted,  beautified,  with  all  manner  of  little 
wooden  saints  upon  its  gables.  Then  a  fine 
thought  came  to  Luis  (inspired,  no  doubt,  by 


66  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

the  great  saint),  that  this  chapel  should  be  con- 
secrated by  the  Bishop  of  Caracas,  at  whose 
white  hands  (he  thought)  the  company  might 
be  absolved  of  their  sins.  He  wrote  a  letter  to 
the  bishop,  reverently  making  his  submission, 
and  begging  that  a  set  of  men  so  penitent  might 
be  received  again  into  the  Church.  Several 
days  passed  and  no  letter  came  in  reply,  for  the 
bishop's  answer  took  another  shape.  It  came 
sailing  into  the  bay  one  morning,  a  smart  frigate 
of  thirty  cannon,  with  the  King  of  Spain's  in- 
structions to  "  destroy  all  pirates."  By  the 
end  of  the  day  Luis  and  his  men  lay  dead. 
They  had  been  shot  by  the  marines  against  the 
wall  of  the  chapel.  They  were  even  denied  the 
offices  of  the  frigate's  chaplain,  so  that  their 
poor  lost  souls  now  wander  in  the  woods,  crying 
and  whimpering  like  the  seagulls.  On  certain 
nights,  the  Spaniards  say,  they  may  be  seen 
there  in  the  moonlight,  busily  gilding  an  image 
of  Santa  Anna  designed  to  hang  above  the  altar. 
If  one  listens,  it  is  said,  one  may  hear  very 
faintly,  above  the  noises  of  the  forest,  the  words 
of  one  of  the  penitential  psalms  coming  like  a 
sigh  from  the  poor  ghosts  as  they  work. 


VI 
DAVY  JONES'S  GIFT 

"  ONCE  upon  a  time,"  said  the  sailor,  "  the 
Devil  and  Davy  Jones  came  to  Cardiff,  to  the 
place  called  Tiger  Bay.  They  put  up  at  Tony 
Adams's,  not  far  from  Pier  Head,  at  the  corner 
of  Sunday  Lane.  And  all  the  time  they  stayed 
there  they  used  to  be  going  to  the  rum-shop, 
where  they  sat  at  a  table,  smoking  their  cigars, 
and  dicing  each  other  for  different  persons' 
souls.  Now  you  must  know  that  the  Devil  gets 
landsmen,  and  Davy  Jones  gets  sailor-folk ;  and 
they  get  tired  of  having  always  the  same,  so 
then  they  dice  each  other  for  some  of  another 
sort. 

"  One  time  they  were  in  a  place  in  Mary 
Street,  having  some  burnt  brandy,  and  playing 
red  and  black  for  the  people  passing.  And 
while  they  were  looking  out  on  the  street  and 
turning  the  cards,  they  saw  all  the  people  on 
the  sidewalk  breaking  their  necks  to  get  into  the 
gutter.  And  they  saw  all  the  shop-people  run- 
67 


68  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

ning  out  and  kowtowing,  and  all  the  carts  pull- 
ing up,  and  all  the  police  saluting.  *  Here 
comes  a  big  nob,'  said  Davy  Jones.  '  Yes,'  said 
the  Devil ;  *  it's  the  Bishop  that's  stopping  with 
the  Mayor.*  *  Red  or  black?  '  said  Davy  Jones, 
picking  up  a  card.  *  I  don't  play  for  bishops,' 
said  the  Devil.  *  I  respect  the  cloth,'  he  said. 
'  Come  on,  man,'  said  Davy  Jones.  *  I'd  give 
an  admiral  to  have  a  bishop.  Come  on,  now; 
make  your  game.  Red  or  black?'  'Well,  I 
say  red,'  said  the  Devil.  l  It's  the  ace  of  clubs,' 
said  Davy  Jones ;  *  I  win ;  and  it's  the  first 
bishop  ever  I  had  in  my  life.'  The  Devil  was 
mighty  angry  at  that  —  at  losing  a  bishop. 
'  I'll  not  play  any  more,'  he  said ; '  I'm  off  home. 
Some  people  gets  too  good  cards  for  me. 
There  was  some  queer  shuffling  when  that  pack 
was  cut,  that's  my  belief.' 

" '  Ah,  stay  and  be  friends,  man,'  said  Davy 
Jones.  *  Look  at  what's  coming  down  the 
street.  I'll  give  you  that  for  nothing.' 

"  Now,  coming  down  the  street  there  was  a 
reefer  —  one  of  those  apprentice  fellows.  And 
he  was  brass-bound  fit  to  play  music.  He  stood 
about  six  feet,  and  there  were  bright  brass 
buttons  down  his  jacket,  and  on  his  collar,  and 


DAVY  JONES'S  GIFT  69 

on  his  sleeves.  His  cap  had  a  big  gold  badge, 
with  a  house-flag  in  seven  different  colours  in 
the  middle  of  it,  and  a  gold  chain  cable  of  a 
chinstay  twisted  round  it.  He  was  wearing  his 
cap  on  three  hairs,  and  he  was  walking  on  both 
the  sidewalks  and  all  the  road.  His  trousers 
were  cut  like  wind-sails  round  the  ankles.  He 
had  a  fathom  of  red  silk  tie  rolling  out  over  his 
chest.  He'd  a  cigarette  in  a  twisted  clay  holder 
a  foot  and  a  half  long.  He  was  chewing  to- 
bacco over  his  shoulders  as  he  walked.  He'd  a 
bottle  of  rum-hot  in  one  hand,  a  bag  of  jam 
tarts  in  the  other,  and  his  pockets  were  full  of 
love-letters  from  every  port  between  Rio  and 
Callao,  round  by  the  East. 

"  '  You  mean  to  say  you'll  give  me  that?  '  said 
the  Devil.  *  I  will,'  said  Davy  Jones,  '  and  a 
beauty  he  is.  I  never  see  a  finer.'  *  He  is,  in- 
deed, a  beauty,'  said  the  Devil.  '  I  take  back 
what  I  said  about  the  cards.  I'm  sorry  I  spoke 
crusty.  What's  the  matter  with  some  more 
burnt  brandy?'  *  Burnt  brandy  be  it,*  said 
Davy  Jones.  So  then  they  rang  the  bell,  and 
ordered  a  new  jug  and  clean  glasses. 

"  Now  the  Devil  was  so  proud  of  what  Davy 
Jones  had  given  him,  he  couldn't  keep  away 


70  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

from  him.  He  used  to  hang  about  the  East 
Bute  Docks,  under  the  red-brick  clock-tower, 
looking  at  the  barque  the  young  man  worked 
aboard.  Bill  Harker  his  name  was.  He  was  in 
a  West  Coast  barque,  the  Coronel,  loading  fuel 
for  Hilo.  So  at  last,  when  the  Coronel  was 
sailing,  the  Devil  shipped  himself  aboard  her, 
as  one  of  the  crowd  in  the  fo'c'sle,  and  away 
they  went  down  the  Channel.  At  first  he  was 
very  happy,  for  Bill  Harker  was  in  the  same 
watch,  and  the  two  would  yarn  together.  And 
though  he  was  wise  when  he  shipped,  Bill  Harker 
taught  him  a  lot.  There  was  a  lot  of  things 
Bill  Harker  knew  about.  But  when  they  were 
off  the  River  Plate,  they  got  caught  in  a  pam- 
pero, and  it  blew  very  hard,  and  a  big  green  sea 
began  to  run.  The  Coronel  was  a  wet  ship,  and 
for  three  days  you  could  stand  upon  her  poop, 
and  look  forward  and  see  nothing  but  a  smother 
of  foam  from  the  break  of  the  poop  to  the  jib- 
boom.  The  crew  had  to  roost  on  the  poop. 
The  fo'c'sle  was  flooded  out.  So  while  they 
were  like  this  the  flying  jib  worked  loose.  *  The 
jib  will  be  gone  in  half  a  tick,'  said  the  mate. 
*  Out  there,  one  of  you,  and  make  it  fast,  before 
it  blows  away.'  But  the  boom  was  dipping  un- 


DAVY  JONES'S  GIFT  71 

der  every  minute,  and  the  waist  was  four  feet 
deep,  and  green  water  came  aboard  all  along  her 
length.  So  none  of  the  crowd  would  go  for- 
ward. Then  Bill  Harker  shambled  out,  and 
away  he  went  forward,  with  the  green  seas 
smashing  over  him,  and  he  lay  out  along  the  jib- 
boom  and  made  the  sail  fast,  and  jolly  nearly 
drowned  he  was.  '  That's  a  brave  lad,  that  Bill 
Harker,'  said  the  Devil.  *  Ah,  come  off,'  said 
the  sailors.  *  Them  reefers,  they  haven't  got 
souls  to  be  saved.'  It  was  that  that  set  the 
Devil  thinking. 

"  By  and  by  they  came  up  with  the  Horn ;  and 
if  it  had  blown  off  the  Plate,  it  now  blew  off  the 
roof.  Talk  about  wind  and  weather.  They 
got  them  both  for  sure  aboard  the  Coronet, 
And  it  blew  all  the  sails  off  her,  and  she  rolled 
all  her  masts  out,  and  the  seas  made  a  breach  of 
her  bulwarks,  and  the  ice  knocked  a  hole  in  her 
bows.  So  watch  and  watch  they  pumped  the 
old  Coronel,  and  the  leak  gained  steadily,  and 
there  they  were  hove  to  under  a  weather  cloth, 
five  and  a  half  degrees  to  the  south  of  anything. 
And  while  they  were  like  this,  just  about  giving 
up  hope,  the  old  man  sent  the  watch  below,  and 
told  them  they  could  start  prayers.  So  the 


72  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

Devil  crept  on  to  the  top  of  the  half-deck,  to 
look  through  the  scuttle,  to  see  what  the  reefers 
were  doing,  and  what  kind  of  prayers  Bill 
Marker  was  putting  up.  And  he  saw  them  all 
sitting  round  the  table,  under  the  lamp,  with 
Bill  Harker  at  the  head.  And  each  of  them  had 
a  hand  of  cards,  and  a  length  of  knotted  rope- 
yarn,  and  they  were  playing  able-whackets. 
Each  man  in  turn  put  down  a  card,  and  swore 
a  new  blasphemy,  and  if  his  swear  didn't  come  as 
he  played  the  card,  then  all  the  others  hit  him 
with  their  teasers.  But  they  never  once  had  a 
chance  to  hit  Bill  Harker.  *  I  think  they  were 
right  about  his  soul,'  said  the  Devil.  And  he 
sighed,  like  he  was  sad. 

"  Shortly  after  that  the  Coronet  went  down, 
and  all  hands  drowned  in  her,  saving  only  Bill 
and  the  Devil.  They  came  up  out  of  the  smoth- 
ering green  seas,  and  saw  the  stars  blinking  in 
the  sky,  and  heard  the  wind  howling  like  a  pack 
of  dogs.  They  managed  to  get  aboard  the 
Coronet's  hen-house,  which  had  come  adrift,  and 
floated.  The  fowls  were  all  drowned  inside,  so 
they  lived  on  drowned  hens.  As  for  drink,  they 
had  to  do  without,  for  there  was  none.  When 
they  got  thirsty  they  splashed  their  faces  with 


DAVY  JONES'S  GIFT  78 

salt  water;  but  they  were  so  cold  they  didn't 
feel  thirst  very  bad.  They  drifted  three  days 
and  three  nights,  till  their  skins  were  all  cracked 
and  salt-caked.  And  all  the  Devil  thought  of 
was  whether  Bill  Harker  had  a  soul.  And  Bill 
kept  telling  the  Devil  what  a  thundering  big 
feed  they  would  have  as  soon  as  they  fetched 
to  port,  and  how  good  a  rum-hot  would  be,  with 
a  lump  of  sugar  and  a  bit  of  lemon  peel. 

"  And  at  last  the  old  hen-house  came  bump  on 
to  Terra  del  Fuego,  and  there  were  some  natives 
cooking  rabbits.  So  the  Devil  and  Bill  made  a 
raid  of  the  whole  jing  bang,  and  ate  till  they 
were  tired.  Then  they  had  a  drink  out  of  a 
brook,  and  a  warm  by  the  fire,  and  a  pleasant 
sleep.  '  Now,'  said  the  Devil,  *  I  will  see  if  he's 
got  a  soul.  I'll  see  if  he  give  thanks.'  So  after 
an  hour  or  two  Bill  took  a  turn  up  and  down 
and  came  to  the  Devil.  '  It's  mighty  dull  on 
this  forgotten  continent,'  he  said.  *  Have  you 
got  a  ha'penny?'  'No,'  said  the  Devil. 
'  What  in  joy  d'ye  want  with  a  ha'penny?  '  '  I 
might  have  played  you  pitch  and  toss,'  said  Bill. 
'  It  was  better  fun  on  the  hen-coop  than  here.' 
'  I  give  you  up,'  said  the  Devil ; '  you've  no  more 
soul  than  the  inner  part  of  an  empty  barrel.' 


74  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

And  with  that  the  Devil  vanished  in  a  flame  of 
sulphur. 

"  Bill  stretched  himself,  and  put  another 
shrub  on  the  fire.  He  picked  up  a  few  round 
shells,  and  began  a  game  of  knucklebones." 


VII 
GHOSTS 

"  GHOSTS  are  common  enough,"  said  an  old 
sailor  to  me  the  other  day,  "  but  they  aren't 
often  seen.  It's  only  common  ghosts  who  are 
seen."  The  finer  spirits  may  only  be  seen  by 
spirits  as  fine  as  they.  The  grosser  spirits,  as 
of  pirates,  highwaymen,  .suicides,  or  of  such 
men  as  hack  and  hew  each  other  in  the  Sagas, 
these  may  be  seen  by  ordinary  people,  in  ordi- 
nary moods,  in  daylight,  in  the  public  roads. 
Most  of  us  have  known  a  haunted  house ;  some 
of  us  may  know  of  haunted  countrysides,  of 
pools,  of  woods,  of  quiet  valleys,  where  immor- 
tal things  still  trouble  the  peace  of  mortals. 
For  my  own  part,  I  know  of  a  little  river  run- 
ning through  a  wood ;  and  the  quiet  of  its  dark 
depth  and  the  stillness  of  the  watching  forest 
give  it  an  abiding  horror,  a  spirit  of  its  own, 
terrible  and  malign.  I  can  never  pass  by  that 
river  or  among  those  quiet  trees  without  feeling 
that  about  me  are  a  multitude  of  spirits  — 
75 


76  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

some,  perhaps,  compassionate,  but  most  of  them 
evil  —  who  resent  my  presence  there  or  would 
make  me  one  with  themselves.  The  river  broad- 
ens out  into  a  lake  beyond  the  wood,  and  the 
lake  is  haunted.  One  has  but  to  look  at  it  to 
see  that  it  is  haunted.  Evil  is  stamped  on  some 
scenes  as  upon  some  faces ;  and  evil  is  upon  that 
trembling  water  and  crouched  in  the  reeds  be- 
side it  and  in  the  darkness  of  its  rocks  and 
deeps.  A  boy  once  saw  what  haunted  it,  and 
ran  home  white  with  fear  and  foaming  at  the 
mouth.  He  said  he  saw  "  a  kind  of  a  red  wir- 
rim  watching  him,"  with  one  pale,  passionless 
eye,  cold  and  blue,  like  a  March  heaven  or  the 
eye  of  an  octopus. 

"  Some  parts  of  the  sea  are  haunted,"  says 
the  old  sailor,  "  but  some  parts  aren't.  It  de- 
pends where  you  go.  There's  some  parts  is. 
full  of  spirits,  and  others  without  any.  They 
aren't  seen  much,  but  sometimes  they  come 
aboard  ships,  but  not  to  hurt.  They  wouldn't 
hurt.  They  might  cause  dreams  and  that  — 
nothing  to  hurt.  Charming  young  ladies,  some 
of  them.  They  wouldn't  do  a  feller  any  harm." 
He  told  me  that  the  early  morning  is  the  best 
time  to  see  them,  at  a  little  before  turn-to  time, 


GHOSTS  77 

before  the  cook  has  coffee  ready.  Sometimes  — 
in  fact,  most  frequently  —  one  does  not  see 
them,  but  feels  them  to  be  about,  in  the  air,  on 
deck,  somewhere.  This  feeling  I  have  had  my- 
self ;  perhaps  most  men  have  had  it ;  a  feeling 
that  there  is  some  one  present,  dodging  about 
on  the  deckhouse,  among  the  boats,  on  the 
booms,  or  in  among  the  bitts.  There  is  an  old 
story  of  a  ship  which  carried  an  extra  hand 
who  had  never  signed  articles.  The  crew  dis- 
covered, when  they  were  in  blue  water,  that  one 
watch  had  a  man  too  many.  "  He  was  one  of 
them  who  wanted  a  passage,"  said  my  friend, 
"  or  perhaps  he  may  have  been  the  Devil. 
There's  no  knowing." 

These  wandering  spirits  who  come  aboard  to 
cause  dreams  are  sometimes  knavish.  I  know 
of  a  sea  captain  who  dreamed  that  by  altering 
his  course  he  would  pick  up  a  boat  of  castaways. 
The  dream  was  very  vivid,  so  vivid  that  he 
could  see  the  ax  marks  along  the  teak  of  the 
boat's  gunnel  where  they  had  cut  the  cover's 
lacings.  He  was  much  upset  by  the  dream,  for 
he  did  not  wish  to  spoil  a  good  passage ;  yet  he 
felt  that  by  keeping  to  his  course  he  might  be  re- 
sponsible for  the  deaths  of  his  fellow-men.  Un- 


78  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

like  most  captains,  he  confided  in  his  mate,  who 
was  a  man  of  great  piety.  The  mate  felt  it  to 
be  a  sign  from  Heaven.  The  ship's  course  was 
altered,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  she  had  a 
man  in  her  top-gallant  cross-trees,  looking  out 
for  any  boat  or  raft  of  the  sort  seen  in  the 
vision.  When  it  grew  dark  the  captain  burned 
occasional  blue  lights  and  fired  off  his  pistol  and 
blew  his  foghorn.  The  next  morning,  when  it 
was  plain  that  there  were  no  castaways,  he 
agreed  with  his  mate  that  he  had  done  all  that 
was  in  his  power.  The  ship  was  brought  to  her 
course  and  continued  her  voyage,  and  the 
whisky  which  had  been  uncorked  ready  for  the 
sufferers,  consoled  the  after  guard  at  dinner. 
I  once  knew  a  sailor  who  had  sailed  in  a 
haunted  passenger  steamer.  She  was  one  of 
the  ships  plying  between  the  Plate  and  Liver- 
pool, but  I  cannot  mention  her  name,  as  she  is 
still  afloat.  She  has  one  peculiarity  —  a  poop 
as  big  as  the  poop  of  an  East  Indiaman.  On 
the  poop  there  are  many  boats,  with  other  clut- 
ter, such  as  skylights  and  a  wheelhouse;  but 
there  is  free  space  enough  for  passengers  to 
play  cricket  or  to  dance  without  breaking  their 
bones.  The  poop  is  haunted.  The  sailor  who 


GHOSTS  79 

told  me  of  the  ghosts  was  one  of  the  ship's  quar- 
termasters. On  one  passage,  when  the  ship  was 
in  the  tropics,  he  had  the  middle  watch  below. 
The  "  fo'c'sle  "  (which  happened  to  be  aft,  un- 
der the  poop)  was  stiflingly  hot,  so  that  he  could 
not  sleep,  though  the  windsails  were  set  and  the 
vessel  was  going  through  it  at  a  steady  clip. 
At  last  he  turned  out  of  his  bunk,  took  a  blanket 
and  a  pillow,  and  went  on  deck  to  sleep.  He 
made  up  his  bed  on  the  poop  to  leeward  of  one 
of  the  boats,  and  settled  down  to  rest  at  about 
three  in  the  morning,  just  as  the  dawn  had  be- 
gun to  change  the  colour  of  the  sky.  He  did 
not  know  how  long  he  slept ;  but  he  woke  up 
with  a  start  to  see  a  line  of  men  "  brooming 
down  "  the  poop  towards  him,  with  a  boatswain 
in  front  of  them  swilling  buckets  of  water  on  to 
the  deck  as  they  worked  aft.  He  saw  them 
plainly  "  as  I  see  my  dinner  on  my  plate,"  some 
three  or  four  yards  away,  all  working  hard. 
They  were  so  near  that  he  sprang  to  his  feet  at 
once,  grabbing  up  his  gear  lest  it  should  be 
wetted.  He  had  hardly  taken  his  gear  in  his 
hand  when  he  thought,  with  a  shock,  that  he  had 
overslept  himself  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half; 
that  it  was  now  half-past  five,  since  they  were 


80  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

washing  decks ;  that  he  hadn't  been  to  muster, 
and  that  he  would  get  a  bee  in  his  ear,  if  noth- 
ing worse,  for  going  on  deck  to  sleep  without 
leaving  word  where  he  could  be  found.  As  he 
got  up  he  saw  that  the  boatswain  and  the  hands 
took  no  notice  of  him,  though  one  of  the  sweep- 
ers looked  in  his  direction.  "  £Ie  was  a  red- 
headed fellow,"  said  the  quartermaster,  "  and 
he'd  got  a  scar  across  one  cheek  like  he'd  been 
hit  by  a  club ;  an  ugly-looking  lad  he  was.  So 
I  knew  at  once  he  wasn't  one  of  our  crowd. 
And  I  saw  him  as  plain  as  I  stand  here,  and  he 
looked  at  me ;  and  I  saw  the  boatswain  as  plain 
too;  I  saw  him  tell  the  red-headed  fellow  to 
heave  round  on  his  broom  and  not  go  dreaming 
like  a  God-send-Sunday  fellow.  No,  I  didn't 
hear  him  say  that;  I  only  seen  him.  And  the 
fellow  he  went  on  brooming  down  directly  I  seen 
him  get  told.  I  felt  queer  all  over ;  it  was  so 
natural.  I  wasn't  dreaming.  I  was  awake  all 
right.  It  was  a  vision.  Or  if  it  wasn't  a  vision, 
I'll  tell  you  what  it  was  —  it  was  sent.  It  was 
sent  as  a  warning.  That  red-headed  fellow  was 
a  warning.  Sometime  I  shall  meet  that  red- 
headed fellow,  and,  you  mark  my  words,  he'll 
give  me  a  queer  push.  So  I  shall  stand  from 


GHOSTS  81 

under  when  I  come  alongside  of  him.  I'd  know 
him  again  if  I  saw  him  all  right.  Some  day 
I  shall  see  him."  The  vision,  or  warning,  or 
whatever  it  was  kept  him  awake  for  the  rest  of 
the  watch.  He  went  below  to  the  fo'c'sle,  hav- 
ing had  enough  of  the  poop,  and  found  that  he 
had  been  asleep  hardly  more  than  twenty 
minutes. 

There  is  something  wrong  with  that  poop.  It 
is  not  a  canny  place.  I  know  of  another  queer 
thing  which  happened  there,  and  of  a  man  who 
started  up  from  his  sleep  beside  a  boat  to  pro- 
phesy of  what  should  happen  to  him  in  a  year's 
time.  The  prophecy  seemed  to  every  one  the 
most  crack-brained  nonsense ;  but  it  was  fulfilled 
exactly,  almost  to  a  day,  certainly  within  a  week 
of  the  time  predicted. 

But  ghosts  are  common  things,  commercial 
things,  things  which  can  only  squeak  and  gib- 
ber and  frighten  poor  travellers.  They  are  the 
base  ones  of  the  spiritual  world.  A  ship,  a 
beautiful  ship,  over  which  the  moral  virtue  of  so 
many  men  has  been  awakened,  must  be  peopled 
by  spirits  more  lovely  than  red-headed  sailors. 
The  lovely  bow,  which  leans  and  cleaves,  slashing 
the  sea  into  flame,  is  surely  guarded  by  a  pres- 


82  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

ence,  erect,  winged,  fiery,  having  the  eyes  and 
the  ardour  of  one  of  the  intellectual  kingdom. 
At  the  wheel,  the  kicking,  side-bruising  wheel, 
which  takes  charge,  and  grunts,  and  flings  one 
over  the  box,  there  stand  for  ever  those  mailed 
ones,  the  ship's  guides  and  guards. 


VIII 


"  WELL,"  said  the  captain  of  the  foretop  to  me, 
"  it's  our  cutter  today,  and  you're  the  youngest 
hand,  and  you'll  be  bowman.  Can  you  pull  an 
oar?  "  "  No,"  I  answered.  "  Well,  you'd  bet- 
ter pull  one  today,  my  son,  or  mind  your  eye. 
You'll  climb  Zion's  Hill  tonight  if  you  go  catch- 
ing any  crabs."  With  that  he  went  swaggering 
along  the  deck,  chewing  his  quid  of  sweet-cake. 
I  thought  lugubriously  of  Zion's  Hill,  a  very 
different  place  from  the  one  in  the  Bible,  and 
the  longer  I  thought,  the  chillier  came  the  sweat 
on  my  palms.  "  Away  cutters,"  went  the  pipe 
a  moment  later.  "  Down  to  your  boat,  fore- 
topmen."  I  skidded  down  the  gangway  into 
the  bows  of  the  cutter,  and  cast  the  turns  from 
the  painter,  keeping  the  boat  secured  by  a  single 
turn.  A  strong  tide  was  running,  and  the 
broken  water  was  flying  up  in  spray.  Dirty 
water  ran  in  trickles  down  my  sleeves.  The 

thwarts  were  wet.     A  lot  of  dirty  water  was 
83 


84  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

slopping  about  in  the  well.  "  Bowman,"  said 
the  captain  of  the  foretop,  "  why  haven't  you 
cleaned  your  boat  out?  "  "  I  didn't  "know  I  had 
to."  "  Well,  next  time  you  don't  know  we'll 
jolly  well  duck  you  in  it.  Let  go  forrard. 
Back  a  stroke,  starboard.  Down  port,  and 
shove  her  off."  "  Where  are  we  going?  "  asked 
the  stroke.  "  We're  going  to  the  etceteraed 
slip  to  get  the  etceteraed  love-letters.  Now 
look  alive  in  the  bows  there.  Get  your  oars  out 
and  give  way.  If  I  come  forward  with  the  tiller 
your  heads'll  ache  for  a  week."  I  got  out  my 
oar,  or  rather  I  got  out  the  oar  which  had  been 
left  to  me.  It  was  one  of  the  midship  oars, 
the  longest  and  heaviest  in  the  boat.  With  this 
I  made  a  shift  to  pull  till  we  neared  the  slip, 
when  I  had  to  lay  my  oar  in,  gather  up  the 
painter,  and  stand  by  to  leap  on  to  the  jetty 
to  make  the  boat  fast  as  we  came  alongside. 
I  have  known  some  misery  in  my  time,  but  the 
agony  of  that  moment,  wondering  if  I  should 
fall  headlong  on  the  slippery  green  weed,  in  the 
sight  of  the  old  sailors  smoking  there,  was  as 
bitter  as  any  I  have  suffered.  The  cutter's  nose 
rubbed  the  dangling  seaweed.  I  made  a  spring, 
slipped,  steadied  myself,  cast  the  painter  around 


AMBITIOUS  JIMMY  HICKS         85 

the  mooring-hook,  and  made  the  boat  fast.  "  A 
round  turn  and  two  half  hitches,"  I  murmured, 
as  I  passed  the  turns,  "  and  a  third  half  hitch 
for  luck."  "  Come  off  with  your  third  half 
hitch,"  said  one  of  the  old  sailors.  "  You  and 
your  three  half  hitches.  You're  like  Jimmy 
Hicks,  the  come-day  go-day.  You  want  to  do 
too  much,  you  do.  You'd  go  dry  the  keel  with  a 
towel,  wouldn't  you,  rather  than  take  a  caulk? 
Come  off  with  your  third  hitch." 

Late  that  night  I  saw  the  old  sailor  in  the 
lamproom,  cleaning  the  heavy  copper  lamps.  I 
asked  if  I  might  help  him,  for  I  wished  to  hear 
the  story  of  Jimmy  Hicks.  He  gave  me  half 
a  dozen  lamps  to  clean,  with  a  mass  of  cotton 
waste  and  a  few  rags,  most  of  them  the  relics  of 
our  soft  cloth  working  caps.  "  Heave  round, 
my  son,"  he  said,  "  and  get  an  appetite  for  your 
supper."  When  I  had  cleaned  two  or  three  of 
my  lamps  I  asked  him  to  tell  me  about  Jimmy 
Hicks. 

"  Ah,"  he  said,  "  you  want  to  be  warned  by 
him.  You're  too  ambitious  [i.  e.  fond  of  work] 
altogether.  Look  at  you  coming  here  to  clean 
my  lamps.  And  you  after  pulling  in  the  cut- 
ter. I  wouldn't  care  to  be  like  Jimmy  Hicks. 


86  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

No.  I  wouldn't  that.  It's  only  young  fellies 
like  you  wants  to  be  like  Jimmy  Hicks." 
"  Who  was  Jimmy  Hicks  ?  "  I  asked ;  "  and  what 
was  it  he  did  ?  " 

"  Ah,"  said  the  old  man,  "  did  you  ever  hear 
tell  of  the  Black  Ball  Line?  Well,  there's  no 
ships  like  them  ships  now.  You  think  them 
Cunarders  at  the  buoy  there;  you  think  them 
fine.  You  should  a  seen  the  Red  Jacket,  or  the 
John  James  Green,  or  the  Thermopylae.  By 
dad,  that  was  a  sight.  Spars  —  talk  of  spars. 
And  sky  sail  yards  on  all  three  masts,  and  a 
flying  jib-boom  the  angels  could  have  picked 
their  teeth  with.  Sixty-six  days  they  took, 
the  Thames  to  Sydney  Heads.  It's  never  been 
done  before  nor  since.  Well,  Jimmy  Hicks  he 
was  a  young,  ambitious  felly,  the  same  as  you. 
And  he  was  in  one  of  them  ships.  I  was  ship- 
mates with  him  myself. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  red-headed  ambitious  fellies 
I  think  Jimmy  Hicks  was  the  worst.  Yes,  sir. 
I  think  he  was  the  worst.  The  day  they  got 
to  sea  the  bosun  set  him  to  scrub  the  fo'c'sle. 
So  he  gets  some  sand  and  holystone  and  a  three- 
cornered  scraper,  and  he  scrubs  that  fo'c'sle  fit 
for  an  admiral.  He  begun  that  job  at  three 


AMBITIOUS  JIMMY  HICKS         87 

bells  in  the  morning  watch,  and  he  was  doing  it 
at  eight  bells,  and  half  his  watch  below  he  was 
doing  it,  and  when  they  called  him  for  dinner  he 
was  still  doing  it.  Talk  about  white.  White 
was  black  alongside  them  planks.  So  in  the  aft- 
ernoon it  came  on  to  blow.  Yes,  sir,  it  breezed 
up.  So  they  had  to  snug  her  down.  So  Jimmy 
Hicks  he  went  up  and  made  the  skysails  fast, 
and  then  he  made  the  royals  fast.  And  then  he 
come  down  to  see  had  he  got  a  good  furl  on 
them.  And  then  up  he  went  again  and  put  a 
new  stow  on  the  skysail.  And  then  he  went  up 
again  to  tinker  the  main  royal  bunt.  Them 
furls  of  his,  by  dad,  they  reminded  me  of  Sefton 
Park.  Yes,  sir;  they  was  that  like  Sunday 
clothes. 

"  He  was  always  like  that.  He  wasn't  never 
happy  unless  he  was  putting  whippings  on  ropes' 
ends,  or  pointing  the  topgallant  and  royal 
braces,  or  polishing  the  brass  on  the  ladders  till 
it  was  as  bright  as  gold.  Always  doing  some- 
thing. Always  doing  more  than  his  piece. 
The  last  to  leave  the  deck  and  the  first  to  come 
up  when  hands  were  called.  If  he  was  told  to 
whip  a  rope,  he  pointed  it  and  gave  it  a  rub 
of  slush  and  Flemish-coiled  it.  If  he  was  told 


88  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

to  broom  down  the  top  of  a  deckhouse  he  got  it 
white  with  a  holystone.  He  was  like  the  poet  — 

Double,  double,  toil  and  trouble. —  Shakespeare. 

That  was  Jimmy  Hicks.  Yes,  sir,  that  was 
him.  You  want  to  be  warned  by  him.  You 
hear  the  terrible  end  he  come  to. 

"  Now  they  was  coming  home  in  that  ship. 
And  what  do  you  suppose  they  had  on  board? 
Well,  they  had  silks.  My  word  they  was  silks. 
Light  as  muslin.  Worth  a  pound  a  fathom. 
All  yellow  and  blue  and  red.  All  the  colours. 
And  a  gloss.  It  was  like  so  much  moonlight. 
Well.  They  had  a  lot  of  that.  Then  they  had 
china  tea,  and  it  wasn't  none  of  your  skilly. 
No,  sir.  It  was  tea  the  King  of  Spain  could 
have  drunk  in  the  golden  palaces  of  Rome. 
There  was  flaviour.  Worth  eighteen  shilling  a 
pound  that  tea  was.  The  same  as  the  Queen 
drunk.  It  was  like  meat  that  tea  was.  You 
didn't  want  no  meat  if  you  had  a  cup  of  that. 
Worth  two  hundred  thousand  pound  that  ship's 
freight  was.  And  a  general  in  the  army  was 
a  passenger.  Besides  a  bishop. 

"  So  as  they  were  coming  home  they  got 
caught  in  a  cyclone,  off  of  the  Mauritius. 


AMBITIOUS  JIMMY  HICKS         89 

Whoo  !  You  should  a  hoard  the  wind.  O 
mommer,  it  just  blew.  And  the  cold  green  seas 
they  kept  coining  aboard.  Ker-woosh,  they 
kept  coining.  And  the  ship  she  groaned  and 
she  strained,  and  she  worked  her  planking  open. 
So  it  was  all  hands  to  the  pumps,  general  and 
bishop  and  all,  and  they  kept  pumping  out  tea, 
all  ready  made  with  salt  water.  That  was  all 
they  had  to  live  on  for  three  days.  Salt-water 
tea.  Very  wholesome  it  is,  too,  for  them  that 
like  it.  And  for  them  that's  inclined  to  con- 
sumption. 

"  By  and  by  the  pumps  choked.  '  The  silks 
is  in  the  well,'  said  the  mate.  *  To  your  prav- 
ers,  boys.  We're  gone  up.'  '  Hold  on  with 
prayers,'  said  the  old  man.  '  Get  a  tackle 
rigged  and  hoist  the  boat  out.  You  can  prav 
afterwards.  Work  is  prayer,'  he  says, '  so  long 
as  I  command.'  '  Lively  there,'  says  the  mate. 
'  Up  there  one  of  you  with  a  block.  Out  to  the 
mainyard  arm  and  rig  a  tackle !  Lively  now. 
Stamp  and  go.  She's  settling  under  us.'  So 
Jimmy  Hicks  seizes  a  tackle  and  they  hook  it  on 
to  the  longboat,  and  Jimmy  nips  into  the  rig- 
ging with  one  of  the  blocks  in  his  hand.  And 
they  clear  it  away  to  him  as  he  goes.  And 


90  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

she  was  settling  like  a  stone  all  the  time.  '  Look 
slippy  there,  you ! '  cries  the  mate,  as  Jimmy 
lays  out  on  the  yard.  For  the  sea  was  crawling 
across  the  deck.  It  was  time  to  be  gone  out  of 
that. 

"  And  Jimmy  gets  to  the  yard-arm,  and  he 
takes  a  round  turn  with  his  lashing,  and  he 
makes  a  half  hitch,  and  he  makes  a  second  half 
hitch.  *  Yard-arm,  there ! '  hails  the  mate. 
'May  we  hoist  away?'  'Hold  on,'  says 
Jimmy,  *  till  I  make  her  fast,'  he  says.  And 
just  as  he  makes  his  third  half  hitch  and  yells 

to  them  to  sway  away Ker-woosh !  there 

comes  a  great  green  sea.  And  down  they  all 
go  —  ship,  and  tea,  and  mate,  and  bishop,  and 
general,  and  Jimmy,  and  the  whole  lash-up. 
All  the  whole  lot  of  them.  And  all  because  he 
would  wait  to  take  the  third  half  hitch.  So  you 
be  warned  by  Jimmy  Hicks,  my  son.  And  don't 
you  be  neither  red-headed  nor  ambitious." 


IX 
ANTY  BLIGH 

ONE  night  in  the  tropics  I  was  "  farmer  "  in  the 
middle  watch  —  that  is,  I  had  neither  "  wheel  " 
nor  "  look  out  "  to  stand  during  the  four  hours 
I  stayed  on  deck.  We  were  running  down  the 
North-east  Trades,  and  the  ship  was  sailing  her- 
self, and  the  wind  was  gentle,  and  it  was  very 
still  on  board,  the  blocks  whining  as  she  rolled, 
and  the  waves  talking,  and  the  wheel-chains 
clanking,  and  a  light  noise  aloft  of  pattering 
and  tapping.  The  sea  was  all  pale  with  moon- 
light, and  from  the  lamproom  door,  where  the 
watch  was  mustered,  I  could  see  a  red  stain  on 
the  water  from  the  port  sidelight.  The  mate 
was  walking  the  weather  side  of  the  poop,  while 
the  boatswain  sat  on  the  booby-hatch  humming 
an  old  tune  and  making  a  sheath  for  his  knife. 
The  watch  were  lying  on  the  deck,  out  of  the 
moonlight,  in  the  shadow  of  the  break  of  the 
poop.  Most  of  them  were  sleeping,  propped 

against  the  bulkhead.     One  of  them  was  singing 
91 


92  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

a  new  chanty  he  had  made,  beating  out  the  tune 
with  his  pipe-stem,  in  a  little  quiet  voice  that 
fitted  the  silence  of  the  night. 

Ha!  ha!    Why  don't  you  blow? 

O   ho! 
Come,   roll   him   over, 

repeated  over  and  over  again,  as  though  he 
could  never  tire  of  the  beauty  of  the  words  and 
the  tune. 

Presently  he  got  up  from  where  he  was  and 
came  over  to  me.  He  was  one  of  the  best  men 
we  had  aboard  —  a  young  Dane  who  talked 
English  like  a  native.  We  had  had  business 
dealings  during  the  dog  watch,  some  hours  be- 
fore, and  he  had  bought  a  towel  from  me,  and 
I  had  let  him  have  it  cheap,  as  I  had  one  or 
two  to  spare.  He  sat  down  beside  me,  and 
began  a  conversation,  discussing  a  number  of 
sailor  matters,  such  as  the  danger  of  sleeping 
in  the  moonlight,  the  poison  supposed  to  lurk  in 
cold  boiled  potatoes,  and  the  folly  of  having  a 
good  time  in  port.  From  these  we  passed  to  the 
consideration  of  piracy,  colouring  our  talk  with 
anecdotes  of  pirates.  "  Ah,  there  was  no 
pirate,"  said  my  friend,  "  like  old  Anty  Bligh 


ANTY  BLIGH  93 

of  Bristol.  Dey  hung  old  Anty  Bligh  off  of 
the  Brazils.  He  was  the  core  and  the  strands 
of  an  old  rogue,  old  Anty  Bligh  was.  Dey  hung 
old  Anty  Bligh  on  Fernando  Noronha,  where 
the  prison  is.  And  he  walked  after,  Anty 
Bligh  did.  That  shows  how  bad  he  was." 
"How  did  he  walk?"  I  asked.  "Let's  hear 
about  him."  "  Oh,  they  jest  hung  him,"  re- 
plied my  friend,  "  like  they'd  hang  any  one 
else,  and  they  left  him  on  the  gallows  after. 
Dey  thought  old  Anty  was  too  bad  to  bury,  I 
guess.  And  there  was  a  young  Spanish  captain 
on  the  island  in  dem  times.  Frisco  Baldo  his 
name  was.  He  was  a  terror.  So  the  night 
dey  hung  old  Anty,  Frisco  was  getting  gorgeous 
wid  some  other  captains  in  a  kind  of  a  drinking 
shanty.  And  de  other  captains  say  to  Frisco, 
'  I  bet  you  a  month's  pay  you  won't  go  and  put 
a  rope  round  Anty's  legs.'  And  '  I  bet  you  a 
new  suit  of  clothes  you  won't  put  a  bowline 
around  Anty's  ankles.'  And  *  I  bet  you  a  cask 
of  wine  you  won't  put  Anty's  feet  in  a  noose.' 
'  I  bet  you  I  will,'  says  Frisco  Baldo.  '  What's 
a  dead  man  anyways,'  he  says, '  and  why  should 
I  be  feared  of  Anty  Bligh?  Give  us  a  rope,* 
he  says,  *  and  I'll  lash  him  up  with  seven  turns, 


94  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

like  a  sailor  would  a  hammock.'  So  he  drinks 
up  his  glass,  and  gets  a  stretch  of  rope,  and  out 
he  goes  into  the  dark  to  where  the  gallows  stood. 
It  was  a  new  moon  dat  time,  and  it  was  as  dark 
as  the  end  of  a  sea-boot  and  as  blind  as  the  toe. 
And  the  gallows  was  right  down  by  the  sea  dat 
time  because  old  Anty  Bligh  was  a  pirate.  So 
he  comes  up  under  the  gallows,  and  there  was 
old  Anty  Bligh  hanging.  And  '  Way-ho,  Anty,' 
he  says.  *  Lash  and  carry,  Anty,'  he  says. 

*  I'm  going  to  lash  you  up  like  a  hammock.'    So 
he  slips  a  bowline  around  Anty's  feet."  .  .  . 
Here  my  informant  broke  off  his  yarn  to  light 
his  pipe.     After  a  few  puffs  he  went  on. 

"  Now  when  a  man's  hanged  in  hemp,"  he 
said  gravely,  "  you  mustn't  never  touch  him 
with  what  killed  him,  for  fear  he  should  come  to 
life  on  you.  You  mark  that.  Don't  you  for- 
get it.  So  soon  as  ever  Frisco  Baldo  sets  that 
bowline  around  Anty's  feet,  old  Anty  looks 
down  from  his  noose,  and  though  it  was  dark, 
Frisco  Baldo  could  see  him  plain  enough. 

*  Thank  you,  young  man,'  said  Anty ;  *  just  cast 
that  turn  off  again.     Burn  my  limbs,'  he  says, 
f  if  you  ain't  got  a  neck !     And  now  climb  up 
here,'  he  says,  *  and  take  my  neck  out  of  the 


ANTY  BLIGH  95 

noose.  I'm  as  dry  as  a  cask  of  split  peas.* 
Now  you  may  guess  that  Frisco  Baldo  feller  he 
come  out  all  over  in  a  cold  sweat.  *  Git  a  gait 
on  you,'  says  Anty.  *  I  ain't  going  to  wait  up 
here  to  please  you.'  So  Frisco  Baldo  climbs 
up,  and  a  sore  job  he  had  of  it  getting  the  noose 
off  Anty.  '  Get  a  gait  on  you,'  says  Anty, '  and 
go  easy  with  them  clumsy  hands  of  yours. 
You'll  give  me  a  sore  throat,'  he  says,  *  the  way 
you're  carrying  on.  Now  don't  let  me  fall 
plop,'  says  Anty.  '  Lower  away  handsomely,' 
he  says.  *  I'll  make  you  a  weary  one  if  you  let 
me  fall  plop,'  he  says.  So  Frisco  lowers  away 
handsomely,  and  Anty  comes  to  the  ground, 
with  the  rope  off  of  him,  only  he  still  had  his 
head  to  one  side  like  he'd  been  hanged.  '  Come 
here  to  me,'  he  says.  So  Frisco  Baldo  goes 
over  to  him.  And  Anty  he  jest  put  one  arm 
round  his  neck  and  gripped  him  tight  and  cold. 
'  Now  march,'  he  says ;  '  march  me  down  to  the 
grog  shop  and  get  me  a  dram.  None  of  your 
six-water  dollops,  neither,*  he  says ;  '  I'm  as 
dry  as  a  foul  block,'  he  says.  So  Frisco  and 
Anty  they  go  to  the  grog  shop,  and  all  the  while 
Anty's  cold  fingers  was  playing  down  Frisco's 
neck.  And  when  they  got  to  der  grog  shop  der 


96  A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

captains  was  all  fell  asleep.  So  Frisco  takes 
the  bottle  of  rum  and  Anty  laps  it  down  like 
he'd  been  used  to  it.  *  Ah ! '  he  says,  *  thank 
ye,'  he  says,  '  and  now  down  to  the  Mole  with 
ye,'  he  says,  *  and  we'll  take  a  boat,'  he  says ; 
'  I'm  going  to  England,'  he  says,  '  to  say  good- 
bye to  me  mother.'  So  Frisco  he  come  out  all 
over  in  a  cold  sweat,  for  he  was  feared  of  the 
sea ;  but  Anty's  cold  fingers  was  fiddling  on  his 
neck,  so  he  t'ink  he  better  go.  And  when  dey 
come  to  der  Mole  there  was  a  boat  there  —  one 
of  these  perry-acks,  as  they  call  them  —  and 
Anty  he  says,  '  You  take  the  oars,'  he  says. 
'  I'll  steer,'  he  says,  *  and  every  time  you  catch 
a  crab,'  he  says,  '  you'll  get  such  a  welt  as 
you'll  remember.'  So  Frisco  shoves  her  off 
and  rows  out  of  the  harbour,  with  old  Anty 
Bligh  at  the  tiller,  telling  him  to  put  his  beef 
on  and  to  watch  out  he  didn't  catch  no  crabs. 
And  he  rowed,  and  he  rowed,  and  he  rowed,  and 
every  time  he  caught  a  crab  —  whack !  he  had 
it  over  the  sconce  with  the  tiller.  And  der 
perry-ack  it  went  a  great  holy  big  skyoot, 
ninety  knots  in  der  quarter  of  an  hour,  so  they 
soon  sees  the  Bull  Point  Light  and  der  Shutter 
Light,  and  then  the  lights  of  Bristol.  '  Oars,' 


ANTY  BLIGH  97 

said  Anty.  *  Lie  on  your  oars,'  he  says ;  *  we 
got  way  enough.'  Then  dey  make  her  fast  to 
a  dock-side  and  dey  goes  ashore,  and  Anty  has 
his  arm  round  Frisco's  neck,  and  *  March,'  he 
says ;  '  step  lively,'  he  says ;  '  for  Johnny  comes 
marching  home,'  he  says.  By  and  by  they  come 
to  a  little  house  with  a  light  in  the  window. 
'  Knock  at  the  door,'  says  Anty.  So  Frisco 
knocks,  and  in  they  go.  There  was  a  fire  burn- 
ing in  the  room  and  some  candles  on  the  table, 
and  there,  by  the  fire,  was  a  very  old,  ugly 
woman  in  a  red  flannel  dress,  and  she'd  a  ring  in 
her  nose  and  a  black  cutty  pipe  between  her  lips. 
*  Good  evening,  mother,'  says  Anty.  *  I  come 
home,'  he  says.  But  the  old  woman  she  just 
looks  at  him  but  never  says  nothing.  '  It's 
your  son  Anty  that's  come  home  to  you,'  he  says 
again.  So  she  looks  at  him  again  and,  *  Aren't 
you  ashamed  of  yourself,  Anty,'  she  says,  *  com- 
ing home  the  way  you  are?  Don't  you  repent 
your  goings-on?'  she  says.  *  Dying  dis- 
graced,' she  says,  '  in  a  foreign  land,  with  none 
to  lay  you  out.'  *  Mother,'  he  says,  *  I  repent 
in  blood,'  he  says.  *  You'll  not  deny  me  my 
rights?  '  he  says.  '  Not  since  you  repent,'  she 
says.  *  Them  as  repents  I  got  no  quarrel  with. 


98  A. TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

You  was  always  a  bad  one,  Anty,'  she  says,  *  but 
I  hoped  you,'d  come  home  in  the  end.  Well, 
and  now  you're  come,'  she  says.  '  And  I  must 
bathe  that  throat  of  yours,'  she  says.  *  It  looks 
as  though  you  been  hit  by  something.'  '  Be 
quick,  mother,'  he  says ;  *  it's  after  midnight 
now,'  he  says. 

"  So  she  washed  him  in  wine,  the  way  you 
wash  a  corpse,  and  put  him  in  a  white  linen 
shroud,  with  a  wooden  cross  on  his  chest,  and 
two  silver  pieces  on  his  eyes,  and  a  golden  mari- 
gold between  his  lips.  And  together  they  car- 
ried him  to  the  perry-ack  and  laid  him  in  the 
stern  sheets.  '  Give  way,  young  man,'  she  says ; 
'  give  way  like  glory.  Pull,  my  heart  of  blood,' 
she  says,  '  or  we'll  have  the  dawn  on  us.'  So 
he  pulls,  that  Frisco  Baldo  does,  and  the  perry- 
ack  makes  big  southing  —  a  degree  a  minute  — 
and  they  comes  ashore  at  the  Mole  just  as  the 
hens  was  settling  to  their  second  sleep.  *  To 
the  churchyard,'  says  the  old  woman ;  *  you 
take  his  legs.'  So  they  carries  him  to  the 
churchyard  at  the  double.  *  Get  a  gait  on  you,' 
says  Anty.  '  I  feel  the  dawn  in  my  bones,'  he 
says.  *  My  wraith'll  chase  you  if  you  ain't  in 
time,'  he  says.  And  there  was  an  empty  grave, 


ANTY  BLIGH  99 

and  they  put  him  in  it,  and  shovelled  in  the 
clay,  and  the  old  woman  poured  out  a  bottle  on 
the  top  of  it.  *  It's  holy  water,'  she  says. 
*  It'll  make  his  wraith  rest  easy.'  Then  she 
runs  down  to  the  sea's  edge  and  gets  into  the 
perry-ack.  And  immediately  she  was  hull  down 
beyond  the  horizon,  and  the  sun  came  up  out  of 
the  sea,  and  the  cocks  cried  cock-a-doodle  in  the 
henroost,  and  Frisco  Baldo  falls  down  into  a 
swound.  He  was  a  changed  man  from  that 
out." 

"  Lee  fore  brace,"  said  the  mate  above  us. 
"  Quit  your  chinning  there,  and  go  forward  to 
the  rope." 


ON  GROWING  OLD 

THE  other  day  I  met  an  old  sailor  friend  at  a 
cafe.  We  dined  together,  talking  of  old  times. 
He  was  just  home,  on  long  leave,  from  the  In- 
dian Marine,  a  service  in  which  he  is  a  lieuten- 
ant. At  first  we  talked  of  our  shipmates,  and 
of  the  men  we  had  known  at  sea  or  in  foreign 
ports ;  but  that  kind  of  talk  was  too  melancholy ; 
we  had  to  stop.  Some  had  fallen  from  aloft, 
and  some  had  fallen  down  the  hold,  and  a  der- 
rick had  killed  one  and  a  bursting  boiler  an- 
other. One  had  been  burnt  in  his  ship,  another 
had  been  posted  missing.  One  had  been  stabbed 
by  a  greaser ;  two  or  three  had  gone  to  the  gold- 
fields  ;  one  was  in  gaol  for  fraud ;  and  one  or  two 
had  taken  to  "  crooking  their  little  fingers  "  in 
the  saloons  of  the  Far  West.  He  and  I,  we 
reckoned,  were  all  that  remained  alive  of  a  group 
of  fifteen  who  were  photographed  together  only 
eleven  years  ago.  Before  we  parted,  my  friend 

remarked  that  I  had  greatly  changed  since  our 
100 


ON  GROWING  OLD  101 

last  meeting.  I  had  grown  quite  grey,  he  said, 
and  I  had  a  drawn,  old  look  about  the  eyes,  and 
no  one  (this  is  what  grieved  me)  would  ever 
think  me  young  again.  Then  we  shook  hands 
and  went  our  ways,  wondering  if  we  should  have 
yet  another  meeting  before  we  died. 

I  left  him  thinking  of  the  sadness  of  life  and 
of  a  man's  folly  in  not  sticking  to  his  work. 
We  had  been  friends,  I  thought,  intimate  friends, 
comrades,  when  we  had  been  at  sea  together. 
We  had  shared  our  clothes,  our  money,  our 
letters  from  home,  our  work,  our  ease.  We  had 
been  a  proverb  and  a  by-word  to  a  whole  ship's 
company.  We  were  going  to  stick  to  each 
other,  we  always  said,  and  when  we  were  old,  we 
hoped,  we  would  get  a  job  on  a  lighthouse,  and 
smoke  our  pipes  and  read  the  papers  together, 
and  perhaps  write  a  book  together,  or  invent  a 
safety  pawl  or  a  new  kind  of  logship.  We  had 
intended  all  these  things.  We  had  hoped  never 
to  separate.  We  had  built  our  lighthouse  in 
the  air,  and  based  it  in  the  wash  of  breakers. 
Then  life,  in  its  strength  and  strangeness,  had 
swept  us  apart ;  and  we  who  had  been  comrades 
were  now  a  little  puzzled  by  each  other.  I  was 
wondering  how  it  was  that  he  could  see  no 


102         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

beauty  in  poetry.  He  was  thinking  me  a  little 
touched  by  time,  an  ancient,  one  grown  old  pre- 
maturely, a  fossil,  a  has-been. 

Then  I  was  startled  to  think  that  he  was 
right;  to  think  that  I  was,  in  sooth,  a  has-been; 
that  I  was  grown  grey  and  bent;  and  that  I 
wore  an  overcoat.  It  was  shocking  to  me.  I 
had  done  with  a  part  of  my  life,  with  my  youth, 
with  my  comrades.  I  should  have  no  more  com- 
rades till  I  died.  I  should  have  friends,  and 
perhaps  a  wife,  and  acquaintances  to  ask  to 
dinner,  and  people  to  take  a  hand  at  cards  with ; 
but  of  comrades  I  should  have  no  more.  They 
were  things  I  had  done  with  for  ever.  I  should 
go  a-roving  no  more.  I  should  never  furl  a  sail 
again  with  a  lot  of  men  in  oilskins.  I  could 
hum  to  myself  the  chorus  — 

To  my 
Ay, 

And  we'll  furl 

Ay 

And  pay  Paddy  Doyle  for  his  boots, 

but  I  should  never  hear  it  again,  as  I  once  heard 
it,  on  the  great  yellow  yards,  among  "  the 
crowd."  That  line  of  swaying  figures  on  the 
foot-rope,  and  the  faces  under  the  sou'-wester 


ON  GROWING  OLD  103 

brims,  and  the  slatting  canvas  stiff  with  ice,  and 
the  roar  and  the  howl  of  the  wind,  and  the  flog- 
ging of  the  gear.  Well;  I  had  done  with  all 
that;  with  that  and  much  else.  I  was  not 
among  "  the  crowd  "  any  more,  nor  could  I  get 
back  to  it.  Those  places  on  the  map  too,  those 
haunting  places,  those  places  with  the  Spanish 
names,  those  magical  places.  Oh,  you  names, 
you  beautiful  names ! 

Then  I  thought  that,  after  all,  if  my  youth 
were  gone,  the  fine  flower  of  it,  the  beauty,  was 
yet  mine.  That  man,  my  friend,  my  old  com- 
rade, what  had  youth  been  to  him?  It  had  been 
a  means  to  an  end,  a  state  of  probation,  the 
formula  that  made  his  present.  Had  it  any 
value  to  him  ?  Did  it  haunt  him  ?  Did  it  come 
flooding  to  his  mind  in  the  night  watches?  Did 
it  say  to  him,  "  This  was  life,  this  was  truth,  this 
was  the  meaning  of  life"?  Could  his  soul  in- 
habit that  past,  like  a  king  in  a  palace? 
What,  of  his  life,  had  seemed  significant  to 
him?  What,  in  the  past,  recurred  to  him? 
Did  anything?  I  called  to  mind  our  first  voy- 
age together,  with  its  long,  long  walks  on  the 
deck,  under  the  stars,  over  the  sharp  shadows 
of  the  sails.  I  remembered  the  first  whale  we 


104         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

saw,  and  the  intense  silvery  brightness  of  his 
spout  against  the  blue  water.  It  had  been  in  a 
dog  watch,  and  I  had  been  washing  on  the 
booby-hatch,  and  we  spoke  a  great  sailing  ship 
an  hour  later.  She  had  come  to  the  wind  about 
half  a  mile  away,  a  noble,  great  ship,  under  all 
sail.  I  remembered  her  name,  the  Glaucus, 
and  the  extreme  stateliness  with  which  she 
dipped,  and  then  rose,  and  again  dipped,  in  a 
slow,  swaying  rhythm.  I  remembered  the  first 
land  we  made  after  our  long  sailing.  We  had 
had  the  morning  watch,  and  had  seen  the  land  at 
dawn,  a  faint  blue  on  the  horizon,  topped  with 
a  bright  peak  or  two  that  were  ruddy  with  sun- 
rise. The  water  alongside  was  no  longer  blue, 
but  a  dark  green,  which  was  not  like  the  seas  we 
had  sailed.  As  it  grew  lighter  the  mist  which 
had  lain  along  the  land  was  blown  away.  We 
saw  the  land  we  had  come  so  far  to  see,  the  land 
we  had  struggled  for,  the  land  we  had  talked  of. 
It  lay  in  a  line  to  leeward,  a  grey,  irregular 
mass,  with  the  sun  shining  on  it.  Over  us  was 
a  sky  of  a  deep,  kindly  blue,  patrolled  with  soft, 
white  clouds,  little  white  Pacific  clouds,  deli- 
cately rounded,  like  the  clouds  of  the  Trade 


ON  GROWING  OLD  105 

Winds.  Under  us  was  the  green,  tremulous, 
talking  water,  and  there,  towards  us,  came  the 
birds  of  those  parts,  birds  of  the  sea,  flying  low, 
dipping  now  and  then  for  fish.  Later,  as  we 
drew  nearer,  we  saw  the  houses,  the  factory 
chimneys,  the  lighthouse,  the  gleam  of  a  window. 
There  were  the  ships  in  the  bay,  tier  upon  tier  of 
them,  their  masts  like  a  fence  of  sticks  round 
a  sand-dune.  Over  the  quiet  sea  came  a  little 
tug,  a  little  wooden  tug,  with  her  paint  gone, 
with  blisters  on  her  smoke-stack.  Slowly  she 
came,  clanging  and  groaning,  making  a  knot  an 
hour.  Aboard  her  were  the  men  we  had  come  so 
far  to  see,  the  strangers,  the  men  with  Spanish 
names.  In  a  few  minutes  we  were  to  speak  with 
them,  we  were  to  speak  with  strangers,  the  first 
we  had  met  for  four  months.  We  should  hear 
strange  voices,  we  should  see  strange  faces,  they 
would  have  news  for  us.  Eagerly  we  watched 
them,  till  the  heads  that  had  been  dots  upon 
her  deck  were  become  human.  She  drew  up  to 
us,  clanging  and  groaning ;  she  came  within  hail. 
We  saw  them,  those  strangers.  A  negro  with  a 
red  cap ;  a  little,  pale  man,  smoking  a  cigar ;  a 
tall,  brown  fellow,  his  teeth  green  with  coca ; 


106         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

and  a  boy  in  a  blue  shirt  teasing  a  monkey  with 
a  stick.  Those  were  the  strangers,  the  men 
we  had  come  to  see,  the  men  we  had  struggled  to 
through  the  months  of  sailing. 

That  was  youth,  the  flower  of  youth,  the 
glory  of  it,  the  adventure  accomplished.  It 
had  been  much  to  me ;  it  is  much  still.  It  had 
been  much  to  my  friend ;  it  was  nothing  to  him 
now.  I  was  getting  old;  yet  the  thing  came 
back  to  me,  I  took  a  part  in  it.  The  thing 
comes  back  to  me ;  the  tug,  the  green  water,  the 
negro  with  the  cap,  the  masts  of  the  ships  at 
anchor.  It  is  eternal,  it  is  my  youth,  I  am 
young  in  it.  It  is  my  friend  who  is  old ;  it  is  he 
who  has  lost  his  youth,  it  has  gone  from  him,  it 
is  dead,  he  has  lived  his  vision. 

But  when  we  get  to  our  lighthouse  he  will 
have  more  of  such  tales  to  tell  me  than  I  to  tell 
him.  He  has  seen  so  much.  He  is  still  seeing 
so  much.  He  will  have  a  fuller  memory  to  turn 
over,  and  arrange,  and  select  from.  And  when 
our  pipes  are  smoked  out,  and  it  is  time  for  us 
to  go  to  our  hammocks,  it  is  not  great  poetry 
we  shall  sing  together.  It  will  be  the  song  we 
sang  when  we  were  comrades,  when  we  sailed  the 
green  seas  and  saw  the  flying  fish.  It  will  be  — 


ON  GROWING  OLD  107 

I    dreamed    a   dream   the   other   night, 
Lowlands,    Lowlands,    hurrah,    my    John; 

1  dreamed  a  dream  the  other  night, 
My   Ixjwlauds  a-ray, 

or  some  other  song  that  conies  with  its  memory 
of  work  done,  its  suggestion  of  storm  and  of 
stress  and  of  adventure  accomplished. 


XI 
A  MEMORY 

IN  these  first  frosty  days,  now  that  there  is  mist 
at  dusk  into  which  the  sun's  red  ball  drops,  one 
can  gather  to  the  fire  as  soon  as  the  lamps  are 
lit  and  take  the  old  book  from  the  shelf,  the  old 
tune  from  the  fiddle,  and  the  old  memory  from 
its  cupboard  in  the  brain.  Memory  is  a  thing 
of  rags  and  patches,  an  odd  heap  of  gear,  a  bag 
of  orts.  It  is  a  record  of  follies,  a  jumble  of 
sketch  and  etching,  heaped  anyhow,  torn, 
broken,  blurred.  One  can  turn  it  over,  and  see 
now  a  deck  scene,  with  a  watch  at  the  halliards, 
now  a  woman  weeping,  now  a  carthorse  tearing 
down  a  road,  scattering  the  crowd.  That  is  the 
common,  haphazard,  perishing  memory,  which  is 
what  one  has  to  show  for  the  privilege  and  glory 
of  being  man.  But  among  these  shadows,  these 
fugitive  pictures,  these  ghosts,  there  are  per- 
sistent memories.  Besides  those  angry  and 
wretched  faces,  and  the  flaring  lights,  and  ter- 
rible suspenses  of  the  common  records,  there  are 
108 


A  MEMORY  109 

others.  When  those  pale  faces  cease  to  haunt 
and  the  sobs  of  the  woman  leave  the  heart  un- 
wrung  for  a  little,  then  the  grander  memory 
comes  flooding  in,  august,  symbolic,  like  the 
rising  of  the  full  moon ;  like  the  coming  of  the 
tide  out  of  the  hollows  of  the  sea.  A  scene,  an 
evenl,  some  little  thing,  will  take  to  itself  a  sig- 
nificant beauty.  What  did  this  mean,  or  this, 
or  this?  Was  it  that  common  thing,  was  it 
what  we  thought?  It  was  a  King  passing,  it 
was  Life  going  by,  it  was  life  laid  bare,  the  tick 
of  the  red  heart,  the  face  under  the  veil,  the 
tune's  meaning.  We  thought  that  it  was  this, 
or  this ;  the  woman's  hand  putting  back  her 
hair,  the  haze  lifting  from  the  sea.  It  was  a 
revelation ;  it  was  a  miracle ;  it  was  a  sweeping 
back  of  Death  to  his  place  in  chaos. 

Now  that  these  frosty  days  are  on  us,  and  the 
fires  are  lit,  the  memory  wakens  and  quickens. 
Those  recurrent  images,  having  the  strength  of 
symbols,  rise  up  within  me,  suggesting  their  con- 
cealed truth.  That  single  memory,  which  has 
haunted  me  so  long,  persists.  It  comes  to  me 
day  after  day,  charged  with  meaning,  beautiful 
and  solemn,  hinting  at  secrets.  The  thing  was 
so  beautiful  it  could  not  be  a  chance,  a  mere 


110         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

event,  finite,  a  thing  of  a  day.  Like  all  beauti- 
ful things,  it  is  a  symbol  of  all  beauty,  a  hand 
flinging  back  the  window,  the  touch  bringing  the 
grass-blade  from  the  seed,  the  fire  destroying 
Troy.  All  lovely  things  have  that  symbolic 
power,  that  key  of  release.  One  has  but  to  fill 
the  mind,  and  to  meditate  upon  a  lovely  thing, 
to  pass  out  of  this  world,  where  the  best  is  but  a 
shadow,  to  that  other  world,  the  world  of 
beauty,  "  where  the  golden  blossoms  burn  upon 
the  trees  for  ever." 

I  was  at  sea  in  a  sailing  ship,  walking  up  and 
down  the  lee  side  of  the  poop,  keeping  the  time, 
and  striking  the  bell  at  each  half-hour.  It  was 
early  in  the  morning  watch,  a  little  after  four  in 
the  morning.  We  were  in  the  tropics,  not  very 
far  from  the  Doldrums,  in  the  last  of  the 
Trades.  We  were  sailing  slowly,  making  per- 
haps some  three  or  four  knots  an  hour  under  all 
sail.  The  dawn  was  in  the  sky  to  leeward  of 
us,  full  of  wonderful  colour,  full  of  embers  and 
fire,  changing  the  heaven,  smouldering  and 
burning,  breaking  out  in  bloody  patches,  fad- 
ing into  faint  gold,  into  grey,  into  a  darkness 
like  smoke.  There  was  a  haze  on  the  sea,  very 
white  and  light,  moving  and  settling.  Dew  was 


A  MEMORY  111 

dripping  from  the  sails,  from  the  ropes,  from 
the  eaves  of  the  charthouse.  The  decks  shone 
with  dew.  In  the  half-light  of  the  dusk,  the 
binnacle  lamps  burnt  pale  and  strangely. 
There  was  a  red  patch  forward,  in  the  water  and 
on  the  mist,  where  the  sidelight  burned.  The 
men  were  moving  to  and  fro  on  the  deck  below 
me,  walking  slowly  in  couples,  one  of  them  sing- 
ing softly,  others  quietly  talking.  They  had 
not  settled  down  to  sleep  since  the  muster,  be- 
cause they  were  expecting  the  morning  "  coffee," 
then  brewing  in  the  galley.  The  galley  funnel 
sent  trails  of  sparks  over  to  leeward,  and  now 
and  then  the  cook  passed  to  the  ship's  side  to 
empty  ashes  into  the  sea.  It  was  a  scene  com- 
mon enough.  The  same  pageant  was  played 
before  me  every  other  day,  whenever  I  had  the 
morning  watch.  There  was  the  sunrise  and  the 
dewy  decks,  the  sails  dripping,  and  the  men 
shuffling  about  along  the  deck.  But  on  this  par- 
ticular day  the  common  scenes  and  events  were 
charged  with  meaning  as  though  they  were  the 
initiation  to  a  mystery,  the  music  playing  be- 
fore a  pageant.  It  may  have  been  the  mist, 
which  made  everything  unreal  and  uncertain, 
especially  in  the  twilight,  with  the  strange  glow 


112         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

coining  through  it  from  the  dawn.  I  remem- 
ber that  a  block  made  a  soft  melancholy  piping 
noise  in  the  mizzen  rigging  as  though  a  bird  had 
awakened  upon  a  branch,  and  the  noise,  though 
common  enough,  made  everything  beautiful, 
just  a's  a  little  touch  of  colour  will  set  off  a 
sombre  picture  and  give  a  value  to  each  tint. 
Then  the  ball  of  the  sun  came  out  of  the  sea  in 
a  mass  of  blood  and  fire,  spreading  streamers 
of  gold  and  rose  along  the  edges  of  the  clouds  to 
the  mid-heaven.  As  he  climbed  from  the  water, 
and  the  last  stars  paled,  the  haze  lifted  and 
died.  Its  last  shadows  moved  away  from  the 
sea  like  grey  deer  going  to  new  pasture,  and 
as  they  went,  the  look-out  gave  a  hail  of  a  ship 
being  to  windward  of  us. 

When  I  saw  her  first  there  was  a  smoke  of 
mist  about  her  as  high  as  her  foreyard.  Her 
topsails  and  flying  kites  had  a  faint  glow  upon 
them  where  the  dawn  caught  them.  Then  the 
mist  rolled  away  from  her,  so  that  we  could  see 
her  hull  and  the  glimmer  of  the  red  sidelight 
as  it  was  hoisted  inboard.  She  was  rolling 
slightly,  tracing  an  arc  against  the  heaven,  and 
as  I  watched  her  the  glow  upon  her  deepened, 
till  every  sail  she  wore  burned  rosily  like  an 


A  MEMORY  113 

opal  turned  to  the  sun,  like  a  fiery  jewel.  She 
was  radiant,  she  was  of  an  immortal  beauty, 
that  swaying,  delicate  clipper.  Coming  as  she 
came,  out  of  the  midst  into  the  dawn,  she  was 
like  a  spirit,  like  an  intellectual  presence.  Her 
hull  glowed,  her  rails  glowed;  there  was  colour 
upon  the  boats  and  tackling.  She  was  a  lofty 
ship  (with  skysails  and  royal  staysails),  and  it 
was  wonderful  to  watch  her,  blushing  in  the  sun, 
swaying  and  curveting.  She  was  alive  with  a 
more  than  mortal  life.  One  thought  that  she 
would  speak  in  some  strange  language  or  break 
out  into  a  music  which  would  express  the  sea 
and  that  great  flower  in  the  sky.  She  came 
trembling  down  to  us,  rising  up  high  and  plung- 
ing; showing  the  red  lead  below  her  water-line; 
then  diving  down  till  the  smother  bubbled  over 
her  hawseholes.  She  bowed  and  curveted ;  the 
light  caught  the  skylights  on  the  poop;  she 
gleamed  and  sparkled;  she  shook  the  sea  from 
her  as  she  rose.  There  was  no  man  aboard  of 
us  but  was  filled  with  the  beauty  of  that  ship.  I 
think  they  would  have  cheered  her  had  she  been 
a  little  nearer  to  us ;  but,  as  it  was,  we  ran  up 
our  flags  in  answer  to  her,  adding  our  position 
and  comparing  our  chronometers,  then  dipping 


114          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

our  ensigns  and  standing  away.  For  some 
minutes  I  watched  her,  as  I  made  up  the  flags 
before  putting  them  back  in  their  cupboard. 
The  old  mate  limped  up  -to  me$  and  spat  and 
swore.  "  That's  one  of  -the  beautiful  sights  of 
the  world,"  he  said.  "  That,  and  a  cornfield, 
and  a  woman  with  -her  child.  It's  beauty  and 
strength.  How  would  you  like  to  have  one  of 
them  skysails  round  her  neck?  "  I  gave  him 
some  'answer,  and  continued  to  watch  her,  till 
the  beautiful,  precise  hull,  with  all  its  lovely 
detail,  had  become  blurred  to  leeward,  where  the 
sun  was  now  marching  in  triumph,  the  helm  of 
a  golden  warrior  plumed  in  cirrus. 


xn 

ON  THE  PALISADES 

ON  the  west  side  of  the  Hudson  River  there  is  a 
cliff,  or  crag  of  rock,  all  carved  into  queer 
shapes.  It  stretches  along  the  riverside  for 
twenty  or  thirty  miles,  as  far  as  Tarrytown,  or 
further,  to  the  broad  part,  where  the  stream 
looks  like  a  sea.  The  cliff  rises  up,  as  a  rule 
very  boldly,  to  the  height  of  several  hundred 
feet.  The  top  of  it  (the  Jersey  shore)  appears 
regular.  It  is  like  a  well-laid  wall  along  the 
river,  with  trees  and  one  or  two  white  wooden 
houses,  instead  of  broken  glass,  at  the  top. 
This  wall-appearance  made  the  settlers  call  the 
crag  "  the  Palisades." 

Where  the  Palisades  are  grandest  is  just  as 
high  up  as  Yonkers.  Hereabouts  they  are  very 
stately,  for  they  are  all  marshalled  along  a 
river  a  mile  or  more  broad,  which  runs  in  a 
straight  line  past  them,  with  a  great  tide.  If 
you  take  a  boat  and  row  across  to  the  Palisades 

their  beauty  makes  you  shiver.     In  the  after- 
115 


116         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

noon,  when  you  are  underneath  them,  the  sun 
is  shut  away  from  you ;  and  there  you  are,  in 
the  chill  and  the  gloom,  with  the  great  cliff 
towering  up,  and  the  pinnacles  and  tall  trees 
catching  the  sunlight  at  the  top.  Then  it  is 
very  still  there.  You  will  see  no  one  along  that 
shore.  A  great  eagle  will  go  sailing  out,  or  a 
hawk  will  drop  and  splash  after  a  fish,  but  you 
will  see  no  other  living  thing,  except  at  the  land- 
ing. There  are  schooners  in  the  river,  of 
course,  but  they  keep  to  the  New  York  shore  to 
avoid  being  becalmed.  You  can  lie  there  in 
your  boat,  in  the  slack  water  near  the  crag-foot, 
and  hear  nothing  but  the  wind,  the  suck  of  the 
water,  or  the  tinkle  of  a  scrap  of  stone  falling 
from  the  cliff  face.  It  is  like  being  in  the  wilds, 
in  one  of  the  desolate  places,  to  lie  there  in  a 
boat  watching  the  eagles.  Then  you  can  row 
round  to  the  landing,  where  there  is  a  sort  of 
beach  of  crumbled  stone.  You  can  go  ashore 
there  to  a  sort  of  a  shack,  where  the  jetty- 
keeper  lives.  He  sells  Milwaukee  beer  and 
chewV  tobacker  and  other  temporal  verities. 
The  ferryboat  only  crosses  twice  a  day,  and  no- 
body ever  crosses  in  her  except  on  Sundays,  and 
she  is  laid  up  all  the  winter;  so  that  he  is  not 


ON  THE  PALISADES  117 

overworked.  When  I  was  there  the  jetty- 
keeper  was  an  old  sailor  who  had  been  in  the 
British  navy  sixty  years  before,  and  had  "  swal- 
lowed the  anchor  "  in  Colon.  He  had  fought  in 
the  Mexican  wars ;  he  had  been  on  the  trail  with 
Bigfoot  Wallace;  he  had  shaken  hands  with 
John  L.  Sullivan ;  and  he  had  helped  to  bombard 
Fort  Sumter  at  the  beginning  of  the  Civil  War. 
He  used  to  tell  all  sorts  of  yarns. 

I  remember  that  one  of  his  yarns  was  about 
an  English  frigate,  the  Pique,  or  the  Blonde,  or 
the  Blanche  (or  some  other  ship  with  a  French 
name),  the  captain  of  which  was  an  Honourable 
somebody  with  great  ideas  of  discipline.  I 
could  never  quite  make  out  whether  he  had  been 
aboard  this  ship,  or  whether  he  had  been  in  port 
with  her,  or  whether  the  whole  story  was  hear- 
say. He  used  to  give  three  versions  of  the  tale. 
One  of  them  began :  "  When  I  was  in  the  King's 
service  —  it  was  King  William  was  King  of 
England  then  —  I  was  a  royal  yardman  aboard 
the  —  say  the  Blonde.  She  was  on  the  South 
American  station."  Another  version  ran :  "  I 
was  in  Valparaiso  one  time.  I  come  there  in  a 
brig  from  Port  Madoc,  under  Captain  Jenkins." 
The  third  version  was  less  realistic.  It  used  to 


118         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

begin :  "  There  was  a  ship  in  them  days  called 
the  Blonde.  She  was  on  the  South  American 
station.  Her  captain  was  an  Honourable  or 
else  a  Lord.  He  was  a  toe-the-liner,  he  was." 
The  tale  itself  was  curious,  but  I  have  not  been 
able  to  prove  it  to  be  true.  The  one  constant 
detail  of  the  yarn  was  that  the  scene  was  Val- 
paraiso Bay.  The  name  of  the  ship  is  doubt- 
ful, the  evidence  of  my  friend  extremely  unre- 
liable, and  the  date  of  the  supposed  event  by  no 
means  settled.  The  yarn  was  as  follows  (I 
adopt  text  C  as  the  safest)  :  — 

"  There  was  a  ship  in  them  days  called  the 
Blonde.  She  was  on  the  South  American  sta- 
tion. Her  captain  was  an  Honourable  or  else 
a  Lord.  He  was  a  toe-the-liner,  he  was.  He 
used  to  polish  the  cap-squares ;  that  was  how  he 
begun.  Then  he  had  all  his  guns  and  car- 
ronades  kept  bright.  You  could  see  your  face 
in  them.  Her  decks  were  African  oak.  And 
you  must  know  it's  not  an  easy  job  to  get  a 
African  oak  deck  to  look  white.  No,  sir,  it  isn't 
that.  Even  if  you  sand  it,  it  still  looks  a  sort 
of  a  pale  muddy  colour.  Now  this  Honourable 
Lord  he  was  death  on  having  his  decks  white. 
He  used  to  work  his  people's  irons  up  over  them 


ON  THE  PALISADES  119 

decks.  He'd  work  them  over  them  decks  all  the 
afternoon  watch.  And  he  was  death  on  reefing 
topsails.  Reefing  topsails  in  stays,  that  was 
his  lay.  You  never  see'd  that  kind  of  play-act- 
ing. He'd  put  his  helm  down  and  let  go  his 
topsail  halliards,  and  he'd  have  his  men  aloft, 
and  laid  out,  and  the  earrings  passed,  and  the 
three  reefs  took,  and  the  men  down  from  aloft, 
and  the  yards  hoisted,  by  the  time  it  was  *  let  go 
and  haul.'  It  was  well  done,  too.  Them  top- 
sails had  a  good  look  along  the  yard,  like  they'd 
been  well  lighted  out,  or  there  was  a  jim  hickey 
of  a  stink  raised.  And  the  last  man  up  got 
his  back  scratched,  and  the  last  man  down  got 
his  grog  stopped.  They  knowed  how  to  flog  in 
them  days,  too.  But  they  were  smart,  all  right. 
They'd  get  a  line-of-battle  ship  under  all  sail, 
every  mortal  rag  she  had,  in  a  minute  and  a 
half.  And  they'd  shift  topmasts  in  an  hour 
and  a  half.  And  they'd  send  up  topmasts  and 
cross  topgallant  yards  in  under  five  minutes. 
They  were  smart,  all  right ;  but  if  you  weren't, 
you  got  it  over  the  shoulders,  man-of-war  style. 
Now  aboard  the  Blonde  they  were  smartened  up 
till  they  walked  away  from  every  one.  And  this 
Honourable  Lord  he'd  walk  the  quarterdeck 


120          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

with  his  watch  and  all.  And  if  it  wasn't  done 
'  on  the  knocker,'  why,  he'd  have  it  all  over 
again.  I  tell  you,  aboard  the  Blonde  they  were 
sick  of  the  sight  of  him.  They  had  that  ship 
all  scraped  and  jim-dandied,  and  every  rope 
like  it  had  been  ruled,  and  every  gun  like  a  mir- 
ror. They  were  afraid  of  turning  in  at  night. 
They  were.  It's  a  fact.  They  got  to  hate 
taking  their  hammocks  from  the  nettings,  there 
was  such  a  fuss  made  when  they  stowed  them 
in  the  morning. 

"  And  while  she  lay  at  Valparaiso  they  were 
ground  for  fair.  They  were  put  through  it  like 
a  circus.  It  was  *  Shift  topmasts,'  or  '  Down 
topgallant  yards,'  or  some  gummy  backache  or 
another  all  the  whole  day  long.  I  guess  that 
Honourable  Lord  thought  he'd  took  the  road 
with  a  theatre  troupe.  There  was  a  Yankee 
frigate  in  Valparaiso.  He  used  to  cross  yards 
against  her.  My  hat,  he  used  to  grind  them 
down  against  that  Yankee  frigate.  She  wasn't 
any  slouch  neither.  No,  sir;  she  wasn't  that. 
She  could  do  her  piece.  But  this  here  Blonde 
she  give  her  the  turn-down. 

"  So  at  last  all  hands  had  had  about  enough 
of  having  their  old  irons  worked.  So  they 


ON  THE  PALISADES  121 

turned  out  one  night,  and  they  got  some  crows 
and  things,  and  they  hove  every  gun  out  of  its 
carriage  and  dumped  it  into  the  bay.  And  they 
did  the  same  with  every  carronade,  and  with 
every  musket,  and  every  pike,  and  every  pistol, 
and  every  ax,  and  every  cutlass.  *  Into  the  bay 
with  you,'  they  said.  That's  what  they  said. 
'  Into  the  bay  with  you.  Them  Chilaneans'll  be 
glad  to  have  you,'  they  said. 

"  So  when  the  morning  dawned  they'd  made 
a  clear  ship.  Yes,  sir ;  a  clear  ship.  Not  a 
weapon  in  her,  but  the  officers'  swords  and  the 
master's  speaking-trumpet.  There  they  were. 
Eighty  ton  of  weapons  gone  through  the  ports. 
There  was  a  gay  conundrum  for  the  Honourable 
Lord  to  crack.  And  what  d'ye  think  he  did? 

"  He  called  all  hands,  and  he  fell  in  the 
marines,  and  he  read  the  Articles  of  War,  and 
he  flogged  the  whole  ship's  company.  And 
when  each  man  was  tied  up  the  ship's  company 
give  a  cheer  to  make  him  stick  it  out.  And 
when  each  man  was  being  flogged  the  crews 
of  all  the  ships  in  port  gave  three  groans  for 
the  Honourable  Lord.  Three  hollow  groans. 
They  was  lying  in  the  tiers  there,  you  know. 
Moored  head  and  stern,  in  with  the  merchant 


128          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

ships.  And  when  each  man  was  being  flogged 
the  crews  all  give  three  groans.  Ugh!  Yah 
yer!  Three  hollow  groans.  And  when  all 
hands  was  flogged  they  give  three  cheers.  And 
the  Yankee  captain  sent  aboard  a  fishing-rod  to 
help  him  get  his  guns  up." 


XIII 

THE  REST-HOUSE  ON  THE 
HILL 

IN  a  town  it  is  easy  to  despise  the  visionary,  for 
in  a  town  there  are  policemen  and  electric  lights 
to  make  difficult  that  fear  of  the  dark  which 
is  the  beginning  of  folk-lore.  Out  on  the  hills 
the  darkness  is  still  terrible.  Among  the  whin 
and  granite  a  man  trespasses  upon  immortal 
tribes  if  he  wanders  out  after  the  evening  star 
has  risen.  In  a  town  a  man  can  join  a  folk- 
lore society,  and  attend  a  dinner  once  a  year,  at 
ten  and  sixpence,  but  out  on  the  hills  he  must 
put  milk  on  the  doorstep  on  St.  John's  Eve  and 
fix  scraps  of  rag  on  the  thorns  of  certain 
bushes.  I  have  never  seen  "  them  "  myself,  but 
in  this  haunted  cabin  where  I  sit,  and  at  the 
only  cabins  within  sight,  there  are  men  and 
women  who  have  seen  and  dealt  with  them. 
"  There's  many  places  here  is  gentle,"  says  an 

old  labourer.     "  There  is,  indeed,"  says  his  old 
123 


124         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

wife.     "  Tell  him  about  the  time  you  were  cross- 
ing the  back-hills  your  lone." 

"  It  was  a  great  many  years  ago,"  says  the 
old  man,  "  and  one  night  I  had  to  go  to  see  my 
brother.  I  was  working  at  that  time  over  at 
Killina,  and  my  brother  was  over  the  hills  at 
Clogh-na-Steuchan,  a  matter  of  eleven  miles. 
It  was  nearly  dark  when  I  started,  and  the  roads 
was  heavy:  but  I  was  a  great  walker  in  them 
days,  and  I  was  got  as  far  as  where  you  can  see 
them  trees  by  about  nine  o'clock,  or  half  an  hour 
later.  I  was  going  along  on  the  path  when  I 
saw  some  one  in  front  of  me.  It  was  a  gentle- 
man-looking man,  a  nice,  tall,  gentleman-look- 
ing man,  the  handsomest  man  I  ever  saw,  except 
it  was  yourself  stepping.  *  It's  a  fine  night,'  he 
says.  '  It  is,  indeed,'  I  says.  *  Where  are  ye 
going? '  he  says.  *  I'm  going  to  Clogh-na- 
Steuchan,'  I  says.  *  You  cannot,'  he  says. 

*  But  I  must,'  I  says.     *  You  cannot,'  he  says ; 

*  you    cannot    go    to    Clogh-na-Steuchan    this 
night.'     *  Who'll  stop  me?  '  I  says.     'There's 
them  upon  the  hills,'  he  says,  *  as'll  stop  any 
mortal  man  as  tries  to  go  this  night.'     '  And 
what'll  I  do?  '  I  says.     *  There's  them  upon  the 
hills,'  he  says,  *  wants  no  one  by  to  see  them. 


REST-HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL     125 

You  could  stay  the  night  at  the  rest-house 
here.'  '  Where  is  there  a  rest-house  here? '  I 
says,  for  I  knew  there  was  none.  *  You  can 
come  in  my  car,'  he  says.  And  then  I  saw  he 
had  a  car  with  a  black  horse  hitched  to  it ;  so  I 
got  into  the  car,  and  he  drove  me  down  a  loan- 
ing. '  Now,  mind  yourself,'  he  says,  '  in  this 
rest-house.  They'll  offer  you  food,  and  you 
mustn't  eat.  They'll  offer  you  drink,  and  you 
mustn't  sup.  They'll  speak  to  you,  and  you 
mustn't  answer.  They'll  give  you  a  bed,  and 
you  mustn't  sleep.  And  you'll  come  away,  and 
you  mustn't  look  back  till  you're  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  the  door.'  So  then  we  came  to  the 
door  of  the  house,  and  I  got  down  from  the 
car  and  I  knocked  at  the  door,  and  I  was  fright- 
ened at  him  telling  me.  There  was  an  old 
woman  came  to  the  door  with  a  light  in  her  hand. 
*  Who  are  you?'  she  says;  'and  where  d'ye 
come  from  ?  '  But  I  remembered  what  the  man 
had  said,  so  I  didn't  answer.  *  Well,  come  in,' 
she  said.  *  Come  in,  dumb  man,'  she  said. 
'  Come  in  and  have  a  bit  of  supper.' 

"  So  I  went  in  to  the  door,  and  inside  it  was 
like  a  large  cottage,  with  turf  on  the  fire  and 
plates  on  the  dresser,  and  a  few  strange  men  sit- 


126         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

ting  round  on  chairs,  and  none  of  them  gave  me 
the  blessing  of  God.  There  was  a  big  pot  on 
the  fire,  and  the  woman  stirred  it,  and  every 
time  she  stirred  it  there  came  a  noise  out  of  the 
pot  like  there  was  a  wounded  man  in  it.  So 
they  gave  out  the  food,  but  I  wouldn't  have 
any ;  and  they  were  angry  with  me  because  I  re- 
fused. *  They're  too  proud  to  eat  with  poor 
folk,  them  Carrigh  boys,'  said  one  of  them. 
And  wasn't  that  wonderful,  that  they  should 
know  where  I  came  from,  and  I  never  seeing 
them  before  ?  Then  one  of  the  men  brought  out 
a  bottle  of  whisky.  And  all  the  time  he  had  it 
in  his  hand  there  was  a  queer  kind  of  music  com- 
ing out  of  it,  and  there  was  another  queer  kind 
of  music  running  all  round  the  dresser.  It  made 
me  all  cold  to  hear  it;  so  I  wouldn't  have  any 
of  the  whisky,  and  they  were  angry  with  me  at 
that.  '  They're  temperance  down  at  the  Point 
in  these  times,'  they  said,  and  then  they  all 
laughed;  and  that  was  wonderful  too,  their 
knowing  about  the  Point.  Then  the  men  went 
to  a  sort  of  bed  there  was,  to  lie  down.  It  was 
a  bed  like  the  beds  in  a  carman's  rest ;  just  one 
big  bed  for  a  dozen  men  to  sleep  on.  There 
was  no  clothes ;  only  just  the  bed,  and  the  head 


REST-HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL      127 

part  was  raised  instead  of  there  being  a  pillow. 
So  I  lay  down  too,  but  I  wouldn't  go  to  sleep; 
I  lay  awake.  And  one  of  the  men  said,  '  Here's 
a  lad  can't  sleep,'  he  says ;  *  bring  him  a  quilt 
and  a  pillow,'  he  says.  So  they  brought  me  a 
quilt  and  a  pillow  so  that  I  should  sleep  easy; 
but  I  wouldn't  have  them  —  I  was  feared  of 
falling  asleep,  because  of  what  the  man  said. 
So  they  were  angry  with  me  at  that.  *  These 
Flaherties  is  like  cats.  They  sleep  in  the  day,' 
they  said,  and  then  they  all  laughed.  And 
wasn't  that  very  wonderful,  that  they  should 
know  my  name?  I  think  it  was  a  wonder  of 
wonders  that  they  should  know  that,  and  I  a 
stranger.  So  then  I  lay  awake  until  it  was  an 
hour  before  daybreak,  and  then  I  heard  a  cock 
crow,  and  I  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  house. 
And  before  I'd  gone  twenty  yards  there  was  one 
of  them  called  out  after  me,  '  Come  back  here ; 
come  back  and  have  some  breakfast.'  But  I 
never  turned  my  head,  because  of  what  the  man 
said.  I  just  kept  straight  on  up  the  loaning. 
And  before  I'd  gone  another  hundred  yards  I 
heard  one  come  running  behind,  and  I  knew  he 
would  try  to  make  me  look  back.  And  he  called 
out :  '  Hey,  there,  Flaherty !  John !  You've 


128         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

left  your  pipe  behind.*  But  I'd  left  my  pipe  at 
home.  I  was  wanting  it  before  I  met  with  the 
fellow  on  the  hill;  so  I  just  walked  on  fast  and 
paid  no  heed  to  him.  I  just  let  him  blather. 
And  before  I'd  gone  another  hundred  yards 
there  was  another  one  come  running  behind. 
'  Help,  help ! '  he  was  singing  out.  '  The  thatch 
is  caught  fire.  The  house'll  be  destroyed  it- 
self.' But  I  was  feared  of  looking  back,  and 
I  kept  on  without  turning.  And  immediately  I 
heard  them  all  come  hurrooing  and  screaming 
like  scholars  come  out  of  a  school,  like  young 
colts  galloping  in  the  dew  of  the  day.  But  I 
never  so  much  as  turned  an  inch  of  my  head ;  no, 
not  so  much  as  a  hair  under  my  hat.  And 
when  I'd  got  a  full  quarter  of  a  mile  away  I 
looked  round.  And  there  was  no  house  at  all 
there;  no  house  at  all.  It  was  nothing  but  just 
the  bare  hill ;  just  the  bare  hill,  with  the  stones, 
and  the  gorse  growing,  and  no  house,  and  no 
loaning,  and  nothing  on  it  at  all.  So  I  walked 
on,  giving  praises  to  Almighty  God  that  I  was 
quit  of  them.  And  I  got  to  my  brother  about 
daybreak ;  and  he  was  feared  I  had  fallen  into 
a  bog.  Wasn't  that  wonderful,  now?  Wasn't 
that  very  wonderful?  It  was  a  wonder,  and  a 


REST-HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL      129 

wonder  of  wonders,  that  was.  There  was  magic 
in  it,  strong  magic.  They're  strong.  They're 
very  strong.  It's  not  good  to  be  saying  too 
much  about  them.  There's  a  power  of  queer 
things  they  do  be  knowing.  They're  knacky 
with  it,  the  same  as  the  Devil  of  Hell." 


XIV 
GENTLE  PEOPLE 

MY  friend  the  old  labourer  was  "  never  much 
bothered "  by  the  fairies.  They  leave  folk 
alone,  he  says,  if  they  aren't  meddled  with ;  but 
they  have  a  way  of  stealing  children  from  the 
cradle,  and  sometimes  they  steal  brides  from  the 
church  door,  if  people  are  so  careless  as  to 
omit  certain  rituals  which  keep  them  at  a  dis- 
tance. His  brother,  he  tells  me,  married  the 
beauty  of  the  town  when  he  was  a  young  man. 
They  had  a  little  girl,  who  was  so  beautiful  that 
all  felt  anxious,  lest  she  should  be  spirited  away 
by  those  who  are  ever  covetous  of  mortal 
beauty,  and  mortal  innocence.  When  she  was  a 
few  months  old  the  father  happened  to  be  com- 
ing home  late  at  night,  along  one  of  the  little- 
used  "  leanings  "  leading  from  the  high  road 
to  his  cabin.  It  was  a  fine,  dark  night,  and  he 
was  thinking  of  nothing  in  particular,  except 
perhaps  the  chances  of  the  crops,  when  he  heard 

a  piping  and  crying  as  though  all  the  fiddles 
130 


GENTLE  PEOPLE  131 

and  pipes  in  Ireland  were  making  a  music  by  the 
side  of  the  road.  There  was  a  stamping  and 
hurrying  of  feet,  like  a  regiment  charging;  and 
there  were  little  wild  cries  and  little  sharp  songs 
in  the  air,  "  as  though  it  was  birds  in  a  corn- 
field." He  looked  towards  the  noise,  and  saw, 
coming  towards  him,  a  company  of  little  people 
in  grey,  all  singing  and  dancing  and  playing 
music,  and  moving  as  fast  as  the  following  of 
waves  in  a  storm.  He  drew  to  one  side  of  the 
road  to  let  them  pass  him,  and  he  crossed  him- 
self vigorously  till  they  were  gone.  He  saw 
that  they  were  carrying  a  little  child's  coffin, 
and  that  they  were  dancing  about  the  coffin  as 
they  marched.  They  had  red  caps  on  them,  and 
little  grey  coats,  "  all  made  so  lovely  as  you'd 
be  seeing."  When  he  saw  the  coffin  his  heart 
sank  low.  "  My  child  is  dead,"  he  said,  and  at 
that  he  fell  to  running  to  his  home  as  fast  as  his 
legs  would  carry  him.  When  he  got  to  the  door 
he  tried  to  open  it,  but  it  was  locked  on  the 
inside.  "  Let  me  in,"  he  says.  "  For  the  love 
of  God,  let  me  in."  And  his  wife  said,  "  God 
save  us.  Who  is  that  beating  on  the  door?" 
And  she  let  him  in.  "  Is  the  child  dead?  "  says 
he.  "  Is  the  child  dead?  "  "  The  child  is  not 


132         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

dead,  indeed,"  she  says.  "  What  ails  you,  any- 
way? The  child  is  well  enough."  So  he  looked 
at  the  cradle,  and  the  child  was  sleeping  quietly. 
"  I  was  feared  for  the  child,"  he  said ;  "  did  you 
not  hear  anything  passing  the  door?"  "  I 
did,"  she  said ;  "  I  heard  the  greatest  fiddling 
and  piping  you  ever  heard.  There  was  a  noise 
outside  that  door  like  an  army  of  pipers,  like 
a  great  wind  in  the  tree-tops ;  I  was  feared  to 
look  out."  The  next  day  they  learned  that  it 
was  a  neighbour's  child  that  had  been  taken  — 
owing,  no  doubt,  to  the  mother's  neglect  of  one 
of  the  preventive  rites. 

Some  fairies  are  solitary.  The  old  man 
showed  me  a  little  holding  owned  by  a  farmer 
who  had  been  helped  by  a  lonely  fairy  for  many 
years.  They  called  him  the  Cluricaun,  he  says, 
and  he  would  do  all  the  work  of  the  house,  and 
most  of  the  field  work  too.  He  would  milk  the 
goats  and  cows,  stack  the  turf,  feed  the  chick- 
ens, rub  down  the  horse,  and  help  to  win  the  hay. 
He  would  mix  the  bread,  keep  the  fire  in,  see  the 
hearth  swept,  and  boil  all  the  potatoes.  He 
had  little  bare  feet  on  him,  and  when  the  roads 
were  muddy  he  would  leave  a  little  track  where 
his  feet  sank  into  the  mud.  One  day  the  farmer 


GENTLE  PEOPLE  133 

thought  it  was  a  shame  that  the  Cluricaun 
should  go  barefoot  in  all  the  mud,  with  the 
thorns  and  the  gorse-spikes  sticking  to  him ;  so 
he  sewed  a  pair  of  shoes  for  him.  They  were  the 
neatest  little  shoes  that  ever  went  on  a  foot. 
The  farmer  left  them  in  the  corner  of  the  hearth 
where  the  Cluricaun  used  to  pass  the  nights. 
In  the  morning  they  were  gone,  and  the  Cluri- 
caun with  them.  He  never  came  back  again. 
When  he  saw  the  pair  of  shoes  left  out  for  him 
he  thought  that  it  was  meant  for  his  wages,  and 
that  he  wasn't  wanted  any  longer.  So  away  he 
went,  and  they  lost  him;  though  often  in  the 
winter  mornings  they  would  have  been  glad  to 
have  heard  him  at  the  milk-pails. 

Other  solitary  fairies  are  less  friendly  to 
human  beings.  On  one  of  the  loneliest  of  these 
lonely  hills  there  is  a  cabin  where  an  old  woman 
lives.  She  must  be  five  hundred  yards  from  her 
nearest  neighbour,  and  she  has  never  seen  a  rail- 
way and  never  been  in  a  boat.  She  has  lived 
so  long  upon  the  borderland  of  the  two  worlds 
that  she  is  as  much  at  home  with  Them  as  with 
men  and  women ;  but  sometimes  They  play  queer 
tricks  upon  her.  She  was  making  her  soda- 
bread  one  morning  when  an  old  pedlar-woman 


134         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

came  to  her  door  asking  her  to  buy  a  kettle. 
"  I  haven't  the  price  of  it,"  she  answered. 
'*  It's  only  fi'pence,"  said  the  pedlar-woman. 
"  I  haven't  the  price  of  it,"  she  answered.  "  You 
have  the  price  of  it,"  said  the  pedlar-woman. 
"  Don't  you  be  telling  me  any  lie,  now.  You 
have  the  price  of  it,  and  twopence  more  than  the 
price  of  it  —  in  the  eggcup  on  the  dresser,"  and 
with  that  she  turned  away,  and  when  the  old 
woman  looked  out  after  her  there  was  no  sign 
of  any  pedlar  there.  "  It  was  a  queer  thing," 
said  the  old  woman,  "  that  they  should  know  I 
had  sevenpence  on  the  dresser.  It  was  strong 
magic  taught  them.  They're  bothersome  at 
whiles,  but  whiles  they're  not  so  bothersome. 
They're  great  ones  for  piping  on  the  back  hills. 
They  make  the  loveliest  music  you  ever  heard. 
It  would  draw  your  heart  out  of  your  body." 

When  she  was  a  girl  they  gave  her  a  great 
scare.  She  had  gone  out  to  gather  sticks  for 
firing,  and,  partly  in  ignorance,  partly  in  care- 
lessness, she  broke  off  a  dead  branch  from  one  of 
the  "  fairy  thorns  "  growing  in  a  field.  She 
laid  her  bundle  of  sticks  upon  the  ground  while 
she  broke  the  branch  into  convenient  lengths. 


GENTLE  PEOPLE  135 

As  she  placed  them  in  her  bundle  and  prepared 
to  carry  it  home  a  little  shining  golden  bird 
alighted  on  the  sticks,  with  his  feathers  ruffled 
and  a  song  coming  out  of  his  mouth  that  would 
beat  all  the  fiddles  that  ever  made  a  tune.  She 
was  so  frightened  at  the  bird  that  she  left  her 
bundle  on  the  ground  and  ran  home.  One  or 
two  other  people  came  to  take  the  bundle  after 
that;  but  the  bird  was  always  perched  upon  it, 
and  none  of  them  would  take  it  while  the  bird 
was  there.  The  bundle  lay  on  the  field  for 
nearly  forty  years,  until  the  last  stick  of  it  had 
rotted ;  but  while  it  lasted  the  people  used  to  go 
to  it  on  Sundays  to  hear  the  bird's  song. 

It  is  always  bad  to  break  a  twig  from  a  fairy 
thorn  tree.  Not  far  from  here  there  is  a  great 
fairy  tree  which  is  very,  very  old  and  beginning 
to  decay.  It  stands  by  the  side  of  a  frequented 
road.  In  one  of  the  storms  of  last  year  a 
branch  of  it  was  broken,  so  that  it  fell  across 
the  road.  It  was  very  much  in  the  way  —  in- 
deed it  stopped  all  wheeled  traffic;  but  no  one 
would  presume  to  lay  hands  upon  the  "  gen- 
try's "  wood.  Men  and  women  would  go  round 
the  branch  as  it  lay  (they  would  not  step  over 


136         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

it),  but  none  of  them  would  touch  it  to  move  it 
to  one  side.  At  last,  when  the  matter  had  be- 
come a  public  nuisance,  the  priest  took  it  in 
hand,  and  the  evil  chance  and  the  branch  were 
thrust  to  one  side  together.  It  was  under  this 
tree  that  the  musical  instrument  was  found. 
"  It  was  a  musical  instrument  belonging  to  the 
fairies.  It  was  like  a  small  hoop  of  silver  or 
some  shining  metal,  and  there  was  little  bells  all 
around  it,  hung  on  to  the  hoop."  I  tried  to 
find  out  the  owner  of  this  "  bell-branch,"  but  I 
was  told  that  it  had  disappeared  soon  after  it 
was  found.  "  They  came  for  it  one  night,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  Maybe  them  little  things  had  a 
value  for  it."  I  have  heard  of  an  English  girl 
who  left  out  her  doll's  clothes  to  dry  upon  a 
bush  after  a  great  doll's  washing.  Among  the 
clothes  were  a  little  red  woollen  coat  and  some 
little  socks  or  stockings.  The  old  cook  found 
these  things  in  the  early  morning,  and  thought 
that  they  had  been  left  by  the  fairies.  "  Amn't 
I  lucky,"  she  said,  "  to  find  these  things  left  by 
the  fairies  ? "  When  she  was  told  that  the 
things  were  doll's  clothes  she  would  not  believe 
it.  "  They've  got  turned-back  cuffs  on  the 
sleeves,"  she  said.  "  There's  no  doll's  things 


GENTLE  PEOPLE  137 

has  cuffs  the  like  of  that."  So  she  kept  the 
doll's  clothes,  and  no  doubt  she  felt  that  they 
brought  her  luck.  It  is  easy  to  be  lucky  when 
one  feels  that  the  stars  are  on  one's  side. 


XV 
SOME  IRISH  FAIRIES 

THERE  are  not  many  fairies  in  England.  The 
English  night  is  peopled  by  a  grimmer  folk,  for 
whom  one  would  never  leave  milk  at  the  door 
nor  a  bunch  of  primroses  upon  the  thatch. 
There  is  no  appeasing  these  folk.  They  are  the 
wraiths  of  bad  men  and  witches.  They  live  the 
life  they  lived  on  earth,  preying  darkly  upon 
the  "  substance  "  of  the  spirit,  as  of  old  they 
preyed  upon  their  bodies. 

In  Gloucestershire,  at  a  cross-roads,  there  is 
the  grave  of  a  highwayman,  with  a  finger-post 
for  a  headstone.  He  was  hanged  about  half  a 
mile  from  where  he  lies,  and  his  burial  was  at 
midnight,  without  religious  rites.  This  man 
(his  name  was  Martin)  had  a  favourite  setter, 
which  would  not  stir  from  his  master's  grave, 
nor  take  food,  till  he  dwindled  to  death.  The 
ghost  of  the  highwayman  is  quiet  enough ;  but 

the  loving  dog  cannot  rest.     It  is  a  charitable 
138 


SOME  IRISH  FAIRIES  139 

wraith,  as  in  life ;  and  though  sometimes  "  it 
flounces  out  on  you,"  it  means  no  manner  of 
harm.  On  a  dark  night,  if  you  pass  that  cross- 
ing, uncertain  of  your  road,  you  have  only  to 
say,  "  Martin's  Dog,  give  me  a  light,"  and 
instantly  the  roads  are  lit  by  great  glowing 
dog's  eyes,  bigger  than  the  moon,  to  show  you 
your  road  and  to  keep  you  from  a  natural  ner- 
vousness. This  dog  is  the  only  charitable 
"  spirit "  I  have  heard  of  in  this  country.  In 
Ireland,  on  tjie  whole,  the  well-meaning 
"  spirits  "  are  quite  common ;  though  some- 
times even  they  play  absurd  and  irritating 
tricks.  Trooping  fairies  are  generally  less 
well-disposed  than  those  who,  like  the  cluricaun, 
or  the  pooka,  go  alone.  The  pooka  is  a  pleas- 
ant creature;  the  cluricaun  sometimes  works 
with  a  family  for  years  together.  Only  one 
fault  can  be  found  with  the  Irish  spirits.  They 
are  arbitrary  creatures  moving  in  a  fantastic 
world  of  their  own.  They  are  outside  life.  In 
England  the  spirits  are  seldom  so  airy.  They 
keep  pretty  close  to  the  earth.  They  do  not 
live  in  water,  or  ride  upon  the  wind.  They 
have  many  of  the  attributes,  and  some  of  them 
the  passions,  of  humanity.  In  Ireland  they  are 


140         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

sometimes  so  "  detached  "  that  they  are  almost 
out  of  human  sympathy. 

An  old  Irish  labourer  told  me  that  once,  when 
he  was  sitting  by  a  stone  fence  with  his  father, 
a  halfpenny  leaped  out  on  to  a  large  flat  stone 
and  began  dancing  and  singing.  Both  thought 
that  some  boy  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall  was 
playing  them  a  trick;  but  when  they  looked 
over,  there  was  nobody  there.  They  knew  then 
that  "  They  "  were  at  their  pranks ;  so  they 
watched  and  listened  to  the  halfpenny  with 
more  than  common  interest.  It  danced  and 
sang  very  prettily,  "  with  a  wee  noise  to  it,  like 
some  one  plucking  a  fiddle-string."  Its  danc- 
ing was  partly  •  step-dancing,  leaping  up  and 
coming  down  in  measure,  like  the  taps  of  a 
drum;  partly  of  that  older,  symbolic  kind  of 
dancing,  of  whirling  round  in  a  variety  of 
circles,  which,  while  complete  in  themselves, 
slowly  described  a  larger  circle.  After  making 
sport  for  half  an  hour  the  halfpenny  became 
tired,  and  paused  for  breath.  As  it  lay  down, 
the  father  took  hold  of  it  and  put  it  in  his 
pocket,  and  carried  it  home.  He  placed  it  in 
a  small  wooden  box  upon  the  dresser,  where  it 
lay  very  still  until  the  lamp  was  lit  at  dusk. 


SOME  IRISH  FAIRIES  141 

Then  it  began  to  sing  again;  but  in  a  different 
note.  Instead  of  singing  like  a  twitched  fiddle- 
string,  it  chirped  like  a  cricket,  its  note  getting 
shriller  and  shriller  "  till  you  would  have 
thought  it  was  bagpipes  playing."  As  the  note 
became  shrill,  it  began  to  dance ;  and  its  danc- 
ing was  no  longer  gentle,  but  noisy  like  the  ham- 
mering of  nails,  or  the  grunting  of  oars  in  their 
crutches,  or  the  falling  of  shingle  when  the  sea 
is  high.  It  did  not  get  tired,  as  before.  It 
danced  and  sang  till  it  had  the  cottage  shaking, 
till  the  neighbours  came  running  to  know  what 
ailed  them,  till  one  would  have  thought  the  end 
of  the  world  was  come.  All  that  night  it  danced 
and  sang,  so  that  they  "  were  feared  to  touch 
it."  They  had  no  sleep  at  all  that  night;  in- 
deed they  thought  that  the  cabin  would  come 
down  upon  them;  and  glad  they  were  when  the 
dawn  broke,  and  the  creature,  whatever  it  was, 
felt  the  need  of  a  little  rest.  At  the  morning 
meal,  before  starting  for  work,  the  family  de- 
bated what  was  best  to  be  done.  All  agreed 
that  the  thing  could  not  be  thrown  away;  that 
was  not  to  be  thought  of;  yet  they  could  not 
have  such  a  creature  in  the  house  another  night. 
While  they  were  debating  the  point,  a  "  poor 


A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

man  "  came  to  the  door,  and  asked  for  help  in 
the  name  of  God.  The  father  thought  that 
there  would  be  a  blessing,  rather  than  ill-luck,  in 
giving  the  man  the  halfpenny;  so  he  gave  it  to 
him,  and  the  beggar  went  his  way  in  all  happi- 
ness. But  by  the  middle  of  the  day,  as  they 
were  working  in  the  fields,  they  heard  the  piping 
and  dancing  coming  from  the  cabin  as  before. 
The  halfpenny  had  come  back  from  the  beggar 
man ;  and  there  it  was  twirling  in  the  box  again, 
as  merry  as  a  colt  in  a  hay-lot.  "  What  shall 
we  do  now?  "  said  the  father.  "  Maybe  the 
priest  would  quiet  it,"  said  the  son.  "  I 
wouldn't  be  bothering  his  reverence,"  said  the 
father,  "  with  a  wee  thing  the  like  of  that." 
"  It's  little  bread  I'll  be  baking,  with  that  thing 
carrying  on,"  said  the  mother.  "  You  were 
best  show  it  to  the  priest."  "  I  will  not  show  it 
to  the  priest,"  said  the  father.  "  I'll  give  it  a 
strong  twist  over  the  rocks  into  the  sea."  So 
he  went  out  of  doors  and  down  the  little  track 
to  the  beach,  and  there  he  gave  the  halfpenny  a 
strong  twist  into  the  sea.  And  immediately  it 
turned  in  the  air,  and  flew  back  and  struck  him 
on  the  cheek,  and  gave  three  hops  back  on  to  the 
dresser.  "  There's  strong  magic  in  that,"  said 


SOME  IRISH  FAIRIES  143 

the  father.  "  It's  a  powerful  magic,  indeed,  is 
in  it,"  said  the  mother.  "  You  were  best  burn 
it."  "  I  would  not  be  burning  it  for  all  the 
gold  of  the  world,"  said  the  father.  So  he  took 
hold  of  it  again,  and  carried  it  "  up  the  road  a 
piece,"  to  a  fairy  thorn  tree,  all  stuck  about 
with  votive  rags  and  ribbons.  He  laid  it  down 
carefully  at  the  foot  of  the  tree.  "  Lie  there," 
he  said.  "  There's  soft  lying  and  sweet 
dreams,"  he  said,  "  under  a  tree  the  like  of 
that."  When  he  had  done  this,  he  turned  to  go 
home;  but  he  hadn't  gone  the  half  of  a  perch 
when  he  heard  little  cries  and  little  pattering 
steps  behind  him,  and  there  was  the  halfpenny 
again,  coming  after  him  "  in  standing  leps," 
like  the  devil  came  through  Athlone.  He  was 
upset  at  the  sight;  but  he  put  the  coin  in  his 
pocket  and  took  it  back  to  his  home.  "  He'll 
not  stay  under  the  thorn,"  he  said.  "  Maybe 
we  were  wrong  to  take  him  from  the  fence." 
"  Maybe  it's  a  sup  of  milk  he  wants,"  said  the 
mother;  but  the  milk  she  offered  was  left  un- 
touched in  its  saucer.  It  was  liberty,  not  milk, 
he  wanted.  So  at  last  the  old  man  and  his  son 
walked  up  the  road  to  the  fence  and  laid  the 
halfpenny  on  the  large  flat  stone.  And  they 


144         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

had  no  sooner  laid  him  down  than  he  gave  a 
long  leap  and  a  whistle,  and  skipped  away  out 
of  that,  like  a  salmon  in  the  sea.  They  never 
saw  him  again,  though  sometimes  they  would 
hear  him  laughing  at  them  from  somewhere  by 
the  side  of  the  road. 

In  a  village  in  the  north  of  Ireland  there  is 
a  young  man,  who  was  walking  home  one  night 
after  being  out  in  a  boat.  He  had  not  far  to 
walk ;  but  his  path  took  him  across  a  field  in 
which  a  fairy  thorn  tree  grows.  It  was  shortly 
after  sunset  when  he  entered  the  field,  but  he 
did  not  reach  his  home  until  the  morning.  All 
the  night  long  he  was  wandering  about  the  field, 
trying  to  get  out  of  it,  following  illusive  tracks 
and  often  falling  headlong.  They  had  be- 
witched him  out  of  sheer  mischief,  so  that  he 
couldn't  tell  which  way  to  turn  at  all.  Long 
before  the  morning  he  was  tired,  but  he  did  not 
dare  to  sleep  there,  for  he  knew  that  if  he  fell 
asleep  there  he  would  wake  witless.  At  last, 
when  it  grew  light,  they  ceased  from  troubling, 
and  he  was  able  to  see  the  path  to  the  fence, 
with  his  cabin  a  little  way  beyond.  He  was  so 
weary  with  walking  that  he  could  do  nothing 
all  that  day. 


SOME  IRISH  FAIRIES  145 

In  a  field  at  the  back  of  the  young  man's 
cabin  there  is  a  sousterrain,  or  "  Dane's  dwell- 
ing," a  sort  of  underground  passage,  lined  with 
stones,  leading  to  an  inner  chamber.  There 
'are  several  of  these  dwellings  in  the  district,  but 
this  one  is  larger  than  most  of  them  and  in  a 
finer  situation.  It  is  said  to  contain  treasure, 
both  gold  and  silver ;  and  not  many  years  ago  a 
man  went  down  it  and  brought  back  a  golden 
spoon.  Others  have  gone  down  since  then ;  "  but 
it  is  likely  they  were  angry  at  the  spoon  going," 
for  no  one  has  found  any  more  treasure,  owing 
to  the  magic  they  have  put  upon  it.  A  few 
months  back  the  owner  rolled  a  great  stone 
across  the  entrance,  so  that  his  sheep  should 
not  fall  down  it,  as  they  grazed  over  the  field. 
The  next  morning  the  stone  was  rolled  from  the 
mouth ;  though  "  it  was  a  great  stone,  would 
take  three  men  to  shift."  The  farmer  called 
his  men,  and  the  stone  was  prised  back  with 
levers;  but  the  next  morning  it  was  lying  on 
its  face  twenty  yards  from  the  mouth  of  the 
dwelling.  The  farmer  was  not  going  to  be 
beaten  by  either  a  Dane  or  a  Druid ;  so  he  hove 
the  stone  back  to  its  place  and  piled  other 
stones  against  it.  The  next  morning  they  were 


146         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

all  scattered  down  the  hill,  and  the  dwelling  lay 
open  to  the  world.  The  farmer  again  rolled 
back  the  stone  and  put  a  strong  curse  upon  it, 
and  set  men  to  watch  there  through  the  night. 
In  the  early  morning  they  all  fell  asleep,  and 
while  they  slept  the  stone  was  rolled  from  the 
door  and  sent  spinning  down  the  hill,  through  a 
stone  fence,  into  the  road.  That  angered  the 
farmer ;  so  he  gathered  all  his  men  and  poured  a 
whole  cartload  of  rocks  down  the  opening,  and 
then  built  a  cairn  on  the  top  of  it.  "  That'll 
keep  you  in,"  he  said.  "  It's  that  or  death,"  he 
said.  The  stones  were  too  much  for  "  Them  " ; 
they  never  moved  one  of  them.  The  Dane's 
dwelling  has  been  closed  ever  since. 

The  old  man  who  tells  me  most  of  my  stories 
once  said  that  one  of  his  greatest  pleasures  was 
to  sit  by  the  sea,  listening  to  the  music.  Very 
sweet  music  comes  out  of  the  sea,  he  says;  and 
he  thinks  "  it  is  the  salmon  do  be  making  it " ; 
for  after  the  salmon  leave  the  coast  the  music  is 
rarely  heard.  The  music  is  soft  and  gentle, 
and  rather  like  the  old  Irish  harps.  It  is  "  mu- 
sic," not  "  tunes,"  which  comes  from  the  sea, 
so  that  it  can't  be  mermaids ;  for  the  mermaids 
sing  tunes,  and  sometimes  the  fishers  learn  the 


SOME  IRISH  FAIRIES  147 

tunes  and  sing  them  at  the  regatta,  "  or  wher- 
ever there  is  singing."  The  salmon  music  is 
less  often  heard  than  of  old,  when  the  rivers 
were  watched  in  the  spawning  season ;  but  in  a 
good  salmon  year,  he  says,  "  the  people  come 
down  from  the  hills  to  hear  it,"  especially  at 
high  tides,  in  calm  weather.  "  The  bees  sing, 
too,"  he  says,  "  and  there's  a  little  bird  on  the 
hills  sings ;  but  there's  none  of  them  sings  like 
the  salmon,  unless  it  was  one  of  the  Saints  of 
God." 


XVI 
THE  CAPE  HORN  CALM 

OFF  Cape  Horn  there  are  but  two  kinds  of 
weather,  neither  one  of  them  a  pleasant  kind. 
If  you  get  the  fine  kind  it  is  dead  calm,  without 
enough  wind  to  lift  the  wind  vane.  The  sea  lies 
oily  and  horrible,  heaving  in  slow,  solemn  swells, 
the  colour  of  soup.  The  sky  closes  down  upon 
the  sea  all  round  you,  the  same  colour  as  the 
water.  The  sun  never  shines  over  those  seas, 
though  sometimes  there  is  a  red  flush,  in  the 
east  or  in  the  west,  to  hint  that  somewhere,  very 
far  away,  there  is  daylight  brightening  the  face 
of  things. 

If  you  are  in  a  ship  in  the  Cape  Horn  calm 
you  forge  ahead,  under  all  sail,  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  an  hour.  The  swell  heaves  you  up  and 
drops  you,  in  long,  slow,  gradual  movements,  in 
a  rhythm  beautiful  to  mark.  You  roll,  too,  in 
a  sort  of  horrible  crescendo,  half  a  dozen  rolls 

•and  a  lull.     You  can  never  tell  when  she  will 
148 


THE  CAPE  HORN  CALM         149 

begin  to  roll.  She  will  begin  quite  suddenly, 
for  no  apparent  reason.  She  will  go  over  and 
over  with  a  rattling  clatter  of  blocks  and  chains. 
Then  she  will  swing  back,  groaning  along  the 
length  of  her,  to  slat  the  great  sails  and  set 
the  reef-points  flogging,  to  a  hard  clack  and 
jangle  of  staysail  sheets.  Then  over  she  will 
go  again,  and  back,  and  again  over,  rolling 
farther  each  time.  At  the  last  of  her  rolls 
there  comes  a  clattering  of  tins,  as  the  galley 
gear  and  whack  pots  slither  across  to  leeward, 
followed  by  cursing  seamen.  The  iron  swing- 
ports  bang  to  and  fro.  The  straining  and 
groaning  sounds  along  her  length.  Every 
block  aloft  clacks  and  whines.  The  sea 
splashes  up  the  scuppers.  The  sleepers  curse 
her  from  their  bunks  for  a  drunken  drogher. 
Then  she  lets  up  and  stands  on  her  dignity,  and 
rolls  no  more  perhaps  for  another  quarter  of 
an  hour. 

It  is  cold,  this  fine  variety,  for  little  snow 
squalls  are  always  blowing  by,  to  cover  the 
decks  with  soft  dry  snow,  and  to  melt  upon  the 
sails.  If  you  go  aloft  you  must  be  careful  what 
you  touch.  If  you  touch  a  wire  shroud,  or  a 
chain  sheet,  the  skin  comes  from  your  hand  as 


150         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

though  a  hot  iron  had  scarred  it.  If  you  but 
scratch  your  hand  aloft,  in  that  fierce  cold,  the 
scratch  will  suppurate.  I  broke  the  skin  of  my 
hand  once  with  a  jagged  scrap  of  wire  in  the 
mainrigging.  The  scratch  festered  so  that  I 
could  not  move  my  hand  for  a  week.  It  was  a 
little  scratch,  the  eighth  of  an  inch  long.  It 
has  left  its  mark.  The  sailors  used  to  prophesy 
that  it  would  cause  the  loss  of  my  arm. 

On  the  whole  we  had  an  easy  time  of  it  in 
the  Cape  Horn  calm.  No  work  was  being  done 
about  decks.  Our  rigging  was  all  set  up,  our 
blocks  all  greased  and  overhauled,  our  chafing 
gear  in  its  place,  and  the  heavy-weather  sails 
bent.  When  we  came  on  deck  we  had  little  to 
do  but  stand  by  ready  for  a  call,  while  the  flur- 
ries of  snow  blew  past  and  the  ship's  planking 
creaked.  The  old  man  was  fond  of  mat-mak- 
ing. I  don't  know  how  he  made  the  mats, 
whether  with  a  "  sword,"  in  the  usual  way,  or  by 
a  needle  upon  canvas.  He  used  the  coarse 
thread  of  bunting  for  his  material.  He  made 
the  boys  unravel  some  old  signal  flags  into  little 
balls  of  thread  while  we  were  rolling  in  the  swell. 
That  was  nearly  all  the  work  we  did  while  the 
calm  lasted. 


THE  CAPE  HORN  CALM         151 

When  we  were  down  below  in  the  half-deck, 
the  little  room  twelve  feet  square,  where  the  six 
boys  lived  and  slept,  we  were  almost  happy. 
We  had  rigged  up  a  bogey  stove,  with  a  chim- 
ney which  kinked  into  elbows  whenever  the  roll 
was  very  heavy.  It  did  not  burn  very  well,  this 
bogey  stove,  but  we  contrived  to  cook  by  it. 
We  were  only  allowed  coke  for  fuel,  but  we  al- 
ways managed  to  steal  coal  enough  either  from 
the  cook  or  from  the  coal-hole.  It  was  our 
great  delight  to  sit  upon  our  chests  in  the  dog 
watch,  looking  at  the  bogey,  listening  to  the 
creaking  chimney,  watching  the  smoke  pouring 
out  from  the  chinks.  In  the  night  watches, 
when  the  sleepers  lay  quiet  in  their  bunks  behind 
the  red  baize  curtains,  one  or  two  of  us  who  kept 
the  deck  would  creep  below  to  put  on  coal. 
That  was  the  golden  time,  the  time  of  the  night 
watch,  to  sit  there  in  the  darkness  among  the 
sleepers  hearing  the  coals  click. 

One  of  us  in  each  night  watch  made  cocoa  for 
the  others.  At  about  four  bells,  when  the 
watch  was  half  through,  the  cocoa-maker  would 
slink  below  to  put  the  kettle  on  to  boil  and  to 
mix  the  brew  in  the  pannikins.  There  is  an  old 
poet  (I  think  it  is  Ben  Jonson ;  it  may  be  Mar- 


152         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

lowe)  who  asks,  "  Where  are  there  greater  athe- 
ists than  your  cooks?  "  I  would  ask,  less 
rhythmically  perhaps,  "  Where  are  there  loftier 
thinkers  than  your  cocoa-makers?  "  Ah,  what 
profound  thoughts  I  thought;  what  mute,  but 
Miltonic,  poetry  I  made  in  that  dim  half-deck, 
by  the  smoky  bogey,  in  the  night,  in  the  still- 
ness, amid  the  many  waters.  The  kings  were 
ashore  in  their  palaces,  tossing  uneasily  (as  who 
would  not)  upon  their  purple  pillows.  Couriers 
were  flogging  spent  horses  along  the  roads  of 
the  world,  bringing  news  of  battle,  of  death,  of 
pestilence.  Soldiers  were  going  into  action. 
Prisoners  were  scraping  shot  in  the  chain  gang. 
Women  were  weeping,  and  the  huntsmen  were  up 
in  America.  Sitting  there  in  the  dim  half-deck, 
watching  the  kettle  boil,  I  saw  it  all.  I  was  like 
Buddha  under  the  holy  branches.  My  mind 
filled  with  pictures  like  the  magical  water  in  the 
bowl  of  a  wizard. 

Then  what  a  joy  it  was  to  take  the  cocoa  tin, 
containing  a  greasy  dark  stuff  of  cocoa  and 
condensed  milk,  already  mixed.  One  put  a 
spoonful  into  each  pannikin  and  then  a  spoonful 
of  soft,  brown,  lumpy  ship's  sugar.  Then  with 
a  spoon,  or  with  a  sheath  knife,  one  bruised  the 


THE  CAPE  HORN  CALM         153 

ingredients  together.  With  what  a  luscious 
crunch  they  blended !  How  perfect  was  the 
smell  of  the  crushed  mixture!  How  it  covered 
away,  like  the  smell  of  incense  at  a  Mass,  the 
rude,  worldly  scents,  such  a  tar,  and  stale  Negro 
Head,  and  oilskins,  and  newly  greased  sea  boots. 
Then,  as  one  mixed,  one  would  hear  the  bells 
struck.  Ting,  ting.  Ting,  ting.  Ting.  Five 
bells  —  an  hour  and  a  half  before  the  watch 
would  end.  One  would  hear  the  old  men  of  the 
sea,  the  old  sailors,  as  they  shambled  along  to 
and  fro  biting  on  the  pipe-stems,  yarning  about 
ships  that  were  long  ago  bilged  on  the  coral. 
One  would  hear  the  scraps  of  songs,  little  stray 
verses,  set  to  old  beautiful  tunes.  There  was 
one  old  man  who  had  no  better  voice  than  a 
donkey.  He  was  for  ever  walking  the  deck  when 
I  brewed  the  cocoa,  singing  "  Rolling  Home," 
the  most  popular  of  all  sailor  songs.  I  think  I 
would  rather  have  written  "  Rolling  Home " 
than  "  Hydriotaphia."  If  I  had  written 
"  Rolling  Home  "  I  would  pass  my  days  at  sea 
or  in  West  Coast  nitrate  ports  hearkening  to 
the  roll  and  the  roar  of  it  as  the  yards  go  jolt- 
ing up  the  mast  or  the  anchor  comes  to  the 
bows. 


154         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

Pipe  all  hands  to  man  the  capstan,  see  your  ca  —  bles 
run  down  clear, 

Heave  away,  and  with  a  will,  boys,  'tis  to  old  Eng- 
land's shores  we  steer; 

And  we'll  sing  in  joyous  chorus  in  the  watches  of 
the  night, 

For  we'll  sight  the  shores  of  England  when  the  grey 
dawn  brings  the  light. 

I  used  to  think  that  stanza,  as  the  old  sailor 
sang  it  in  the  dark  watches,  the  most  beautiful 
thing  the  tongue  of  man  ever  spoke. 

While  he  sang,  I  used  to  take  little  tentative 
nibbles  -at  the  compound  in  the  pannikins. 
Have  you  ever  been  an  exile,  reader,  at  sea,  in 
pr-s-n,  or  somewhere,  where  the  simple  needs  of 
life  cannot  possibly  be  gratified?  If  you  have 
you  will  know  how  that  sweet  mush  of  cocoa 
tasted.  It  was  like  bubbling  water  in  the 
desert,  like  fern  fronds  above  cool  springs,  like 
the  voice  of  the  bird  in  the  moonlight,  in  the 
green  shadows,  in  some  southern  spice  garden, 
drowsy  with  odours.  It  was  like  a  night  in 
June  in  the  forest,  by  the  babbling  brook,  when 
the  moon  rises,  red  and  solemn,  over  the  hills 
where  the  deer  feed.  Ah,  the  taste  of  it!  the 
scent  of  it !  the  hidden  meaning  of  it ! 

Then  as  I  nibbled,  the  kettle  would  come  to 


THE  CAPE  HORN  CALM         155 

the  boil  and  the  brew  would  be  made.  My 
watch-mate  would  come  below  puffing  his  pipe, 
humming  his  favourite  tune  of  "  The  Sailor's 
Wives."  I  would  fill  a  pannikin  and  carry  it  aft 
to  the  boy  on  the  poop,  my  watch-mate  sta- 
tioned there,  keeping  the  time.  Round  us  were 
the  waters,  dark  and  ghostly;  the  crying  sea- 
birds;  the  whales  with  their  pants  and  spout- 
ings.  There  were  the  masts  and  the  great  sails 
filling  and  slatting.  There  were  the  sailors  ly- 
ing on  the  deck,  their  pipe-bowls  ruddy  in  the 
blackness.  There  was  the  murmuring  and  talk- 
ing sea,  full  of  mysterious  menace.  And  the 
sailors'  quiet  talk,  and  the  smell  of  tar  from  the 
sailroom,  and  the  man  at  the  wheel  abaft  all, 
and  the  lame  mate  limping  to  the  binnacle  —  it 
was  all  beautiful,  solemn,  sacred,  like  a  thing  in 
a  dream.  And  then  the  taste  of  the  brew,  when 
one  settled  down  in  the  half-deck.  The  talk 
we  had,  my  sleepy  mate  and  I ;  talk  of  work  and 
of  ships,  of  topsails  and  mermaids,  the  old 
beautiful  talk  of  youth,  that  needs  but  a  lis- 
tener to  be  brilliant. 


XVII 
A  PORT  ROYAL  TWISTER 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  said  the  Jamaican  in  the 
tavern,  there  was  an  English  buccaneer  who 
lived  in  a  Port  Royal  slum.  He  was  a 
poisonous  great  ruffian,  tattooed  with  a  gallows 
upon  each  cheek.  The  sun  had  burnt  him  to 
the  colour  of  old  brandy.  He  wore  a  pigtail 
that  was  knotted  in  a  strip  of  bunting.  His 
trousers  were  of  faded  scarlet,  having  been  dyed 
in  bullock's  blood.  He  had  golden  earrings 
made  of  double  Spanish  guineas  in  his  ears. 
His  hat  was  of  fine  grey  Lima  felt,  with  a  brim 
a  yard  across  and  a  crown  that  tapered  to  a 
point.  He  had  always  a  pair  of  pistols  in  his 
belt,  a  pair  of  oaths  upon  his  lips,  and  a  pair 
of  deadly  sins  upon  his  conscience.  Billy  Blood 
was  his  name,  but  his  shipmates  spoke  of  him 
as  Bloody  Bill. 

Now  Billy  came  home  from  a  cruise  one  time 
with  a  sack  of  Spanish  gold.     He  landed  from 

his  ship  and  went  to  a  tavern,  as  is  the  custom 
158 


A  PORT  ROYAL  TWISTER       157 

among  sailors.  He  called  for  rum  and  a  clean 
clay  pipe.  He  sat  down  at  a  table,  with  his 
sack  of  gold  before  him.  "  You  may  bring 
more  rum,"  he  said,  "  whenever  I  bang  my  pot. 
If  Cut-throat  Jake  and  Jim  the  Cowboy  come 
here,"  he  said,  "  you'd  best  tell  them  where  I 
am."  By  and  by  Jim  and  Jake  arrived  at  the 
tavern.  "  Oh,  happy  day,"  they  said,  "  which 
brings  back  Bloody  Bill.  Ramon,"  they  said, 
"  Ramon,  you  barrel-tilter,  fetch  rum  —  much 
rum  —  that  we  may  welcome  home  our  friend." 
So  Ramon,  the  little  tavern  lad,  went  and 
tapped  a  new  cask,  and  the  three  friends 
laughed  very  heartily  when  they  espied  his  per- 
spicacity. Then  they  set  to  serious  drinking  in 
honour  of  that  so  fortunate  return. 

Towards  three  in  the  morning,  Billy  took  a 
bottle  of  brandy  and  poured  it  into  a  bowl. 
"  Let  us  have  some  burnt  brandy,"  he  re- 
marked. "  Burnt  brandy  crowns  the  night," 
replied  his  comrades.  "  Ho !  bring  in  a  light 
there,  Ramon."  Having  lit  the  brandy  they 
danced  solemnly  about  it  as  it  burned,  singing 
a  lyric  of  the  forecastle.  Then  Billy  seized 
the  flaming  bowl  and  drained  it  down  at  a  gulp. 
The  bowl  dropped  from  his  hands  and  shattered 


158         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

into  fragments  on  the  floor.  He  took  a  step 
backwards  and  a  step  to  one  side,  and  collapsed 
upon  his  back  like  a  pole-axed  steer.  His  com- 
rades strove  for  a  moment  to  revive  him  by 
pouring  rum  down  his  throat.  They  then 
blacked  his  nose  with  a  piece  of  burnt  cork  and 
rolled  away  home  with  a  song. 

Now,  when  Billy  collapsed  upon  the  floor  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  fell  and  fell  and  fell,  as 
though  he  were  a  pebble  going  over  a  precipice. 
By  and  by  he  seemed  to  be  brought  up  with  a 
round  turn,  though  it  was  all  black  about  him 
—  as  black  as  so  much  crape.  Presently  he 
thought  he  saw  a  sort  of  a  gleam  in  the  black- 
ness, like  a  slug's  track  upon  a  cellar  wall  or  a 
dead  crab  in  the  caves  here.  Then  he  thought 
he  heard  the  ticking  of  a  dropping  water-clock, 
like  those  you  buy  in  Lima.  Then  he  heard  a 
great  whir  of  birds,  like  Zips,  going  by  in  a 
covey,  and  immediately  all  the  birds  laughed, 
like  so  many  people  at  a  pantomime.  Then 
there  came  a  roar  and  bang,  as  though  he  had 
been  fired  from  a  gun,  and  there  he  was,  blink- 
ing like  an  owl,  in  a  little  low  room,  lit  by  many 
candles,  with  a  fire  at  the  one  end  in  an  open 
iron  basket.  Now,  what  frightened  Billy  Blood 


A  PORT  ROYAL  TWISTER       159 

was  the  folk  who  sat  there,  for  there  was  a  table 
with  benches  round  it,  and  people  sitting  at 
their  drink.  They  weren't  nice  people  either, 
not  in  the  least  like  you  or  me,  for  though  each 
wore  a  sort  of  red  cloak,  they  had  the  heads 
of  snakes,  and  they  were  smoking  long  clay 
pipes,  and  they  were  laughing  in  a  sort  of  hissy 
chuckle.  And  there  was  a  great  Goat-Snake 
sitting  at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  whenever 
he  spoke  it  sent  a  cold  dew  along  Billy's  spine. 
"  Come  here,"  he  said,  "  Billy  Blood.  Do  you 
know  what's  going  to  be  done  with  you  ? " 
"  No,  sir,"  said  Billy ;  "  if  you  please,  sir,  I'd 
rather  not."  And  directly  he  said  that  the 
room  became  dark,  and  it  seemed  to  Billy  that 
he  was  on  the  loneliest  island  of  the  world  —  on 
Desolation  Island,  to  the  south  of  the  Diego 
Ramirez.  It  was  very  cold.  It  snowed  in  con- 
tinual little  flurries.  There  was  a  snarling 
green  sea  getting  up.  There  was  night  and 
misery  rolling  in  from  the  south  and  west.  Oh, 
a  bitter  place  it  seemed  —  a  bitter  place. 
Then  there  came  a  gull  flying  past,  blowing  in 
the  wind  like  a  scrap  of  dirty  paper.  "  Wheu, 
wheu,  wheu,"  it  cried.  "  Billy  Blood,  my  son ; 
Billy  Blood,  my  son ;  wheu,  wheu,  wheu,  and  so 


160         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

you  are  here."  And  Billy  knew  the  voice  to 
be  the  voice  of  old  Captain  Morgan,  his  old 
captain.  And  immediately  he  felt  that  he  too 
was  changing  to  a  gull ;  he  felt  that  his  feet  were 
webbing  and  his  nose  growing  into  spoon  shape. 
Then  there  came  a  great  cackling  and  crying, 
and  thither  came  a  swarm  of  Cape  pigeons. 
"  Wheu,  wheu,"  they  cried,  "  here's  old  Billy 
Blood,  old  Bloody  Bill,  old  brandy-bows." 
And  Billy  knew  them  to  be  his  old  shipmates, 
for  one  by  one  he  recognized  them.  There  was 
Ned  that  they  left  behind  on  the  Chagres ;  there 
was  Joe  that  was  shot  at  Panama;  there  was 
Jack  that  got  the  fever  at  St.  Mary;  there 
were  Bill  and  Dick  that  the  Spaniards  hung, 
and  Jimmy  that  was  drowned  in  the  surf.  And 
he  felt  that  his  skin  was  coming  out  in  spots,  in 
black  and  white  mottles  like  the  pigeons.  Then 
there  came  a  busy  multitude  of  penguins,  swim- 
ming on  the  waves  and  slapping  at  the  water 
with  their  flappers.  They  laughed  and  mewed 
as  they  swam,  and  pecked  at  anything  they  saw. 
And  Bill  knew  them  to  be  the  old  buccaneers  of 
the  past,  the  men  who  had  sailed  with  Drake, 
the  men  of  Algiers  and  Thelemark  —  all  the  old 
raiders  who  had  died  in  their  shirts  since  water 


A  PORT  ROYAL  TWISTER       161 

drowned.  And  he  felt  that  his  arms  were 
shrinking  into  flappers,  that  his  chest  was  get- 
ting scaly,  and  that  his  blood  was  three-parts 
oil,  like  a  Valparaiso  salad.  "  Let  me  out  of 
this  !  "  he  screamed ;  "  let  me  out  of  this !  " 
And  immediately  he  was  back  in  the  little  room, 
with  the  red-cloaked  snakes  still  smoking  at  the 
table  and  laughing  in  a  sort  of  hissy  chuckle. 

"  Well,  Billy  Blood,"  said  the  fat  black  Goat- 
Snake,  "  now  you  know  what's  going  to  be  done 
to  you."  "  Oh,  sir,"  said  Billy,  "  please,  sir, 
not.  Not  that,  sir;  not  a  bird,  not  a  gulley 
that  the  reefers  catch  with  pork  fat.  Any- 
thing but  that,  sir,"  he  said.  "Why  not?" 
said  the  Goat-Snake ;  "  why  shouldn't  you  be  a 
gulley?  Haven't  you  lied  and  robbed  and 
drunk  and  killed  till  your  blood  is  three-parts 
rum  and  your  soul  a  thick  black  blot  of  guilt? 
Why  shouldn't  you  be  a  gulley  like  your 
precious  comrades?"  Billy  didn't  find  it  easy 
to  make  an  answer.  "  Well,"  said  the  Goat- 
Snake,  "  answer  me.  Why  shouldn't  you  be  a 
gulley?  Did  you  ever  do  a  single  good  act  — 
one  single  good  act  —  since  you  came  to  be  a 
grown-ur>  man  ?  "  So  Billy  thought  for  a  long 
time.  Then  he  said,  "  Please,  sir,  I  gave  a 


162         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

blind  beggar  a  quoit  of  gold  that  time  I  was 
ashore  in  Honduras."  "  A  lot  of  good  that'll 
do  to  you,"  said  the  Goat-Snake.  "  Weren't 
you  drunk  at  the  time  ?  "  "  Not  exactly  drunk, 
sir,"  said  Billy,  "  not  drunk  exactly.  That 
wasn't  it.  Only  just  merry  or  so."  "  And 
didn't  you  do  it  by  mistake?"  said  the  Goat- 
Snake.  **  Didn't  you  intend  to  give  him  the 
little  brass  plate  you'd  stolen  from  the  medicine 
chest?"  "I  did,  sir,"  said  Billy;  "it's  true. 
Only  I  was  the  poorer  for  it.  It  was  a  good 
deed  that  way."  "  A  gulley  you  must  be,"  said 
the  Goat-Snake.  "  I  never  heard  a  paltrier  ex- 
cuse." "  Please,  sir,"  said  Billy,  "  there  was  a 
good  deed  I  did  when  I  was  a  lad  at  school." 
"  Any  port  in  a  storm,"  said  the  Goat-Snake. 
"What  was  that?"  "Sir,"  said  Billy,  "one 
time  they  tried  to  get  me  to  come  and  rob  an 
orchard.  '  No,'  I  said.  *  It's  a  widow's 
orchard.  I  will  not  rob  a  widow's  orchard  with 
any  man.'  Wasn't  that  a  good  deed  I'd  like  to 
know?"  "A  lot  of  good  that'll  do  to  you," 
said  the  Goat-Snake.  "  Didn't  you  pinch  the 
boys'  cakes  as  soon  as  they  were  gone  to  get 
the  apples?  Wasn't  that  why  you  refused  to 
go  —  so  that  you  might  rob  their  dinner  bas- 


A  PORT  ROYAL  TWISTER       163 

kets?"  "You're  so  hard  on  a  feller,"  said 
Billy ;  "  you  don't  give  one  half  a  chance."  "  A 
gulley  you  must  be,"  said  the  Goat-Snake.  "  I 
can't  think  how  you  were  taught.  I  never  met 
such  a  man."  "  There  was  a  good  deed  I  did, 
sir ;  really  there  was,  sir,"  said  Billy,  "  when  I 
was  a  little  babe  in  shorts."  "  Better  crust 
than  supperless,"  said  the  Goat-Snake.  "  But 
I  must  say  you  run  it  rather  fine.  What  was 
that,  I  wonder?  "  "  Sir,"  said  Billy,  "  one  time 
when  I  was  teething  I  kept  from  yelling  in  the 
night,  so  that  my  poor  mother  got  a  little  sleep." 
"  I  dare  say  they'd  given  you  a  sleeping 
draught,"  said  the  Goat-Snake.  "  But  we'll  let 
it  go  at  that.  You  shall  not  be  a  gulley  unless 
you  come  here  again.  But  you  mind  your  eye, 
my  son.  I'm  not  a  jesting  person." 

And  Billy  woke  up  with  a  screech  on  the 
tavern  floor  where  he  had  fallen,  and  he  swore 
off  rum  from  that  day.  He  lived  to  be  church- 
warden down  to  Dartmouth,  and  was  actually 
buried  in  the  nave. 


XVIII 
IN  A  FO'C'SLE 

ASHORE,  in  the  towns,  men  find  it  easy  to  amuse 
themselves,  for  there  is  amusement,  or  at  least 
a  satisfaction,  in  being  with  a  number  of  one's 
fellows.  No  man  need  suffer  much  from  intro- 
spection while  opinions,  ideals,  and  a  sight  of 
the  most  living  of  modern  arts  may  be  pur- 
chased for  a  few  copper  coins.  But  at  sea  the 
individual  must  make  his  own  amusement  or  be- 
come a  victim  of  that  brooding  melancholy  from 
which  so  many  sailors  suffer.  A  sailing  ship 
has  always  reminded  me  of  the  Middle  Ages,  for 
on  board  a  sailing  ship  one  meets  with  the  last 
traces  of  the  mediaeval  temper.  One  sees  in  a 
forecastle  or  in  a  half-deck  the  creation  of  arts 
to  fill  the  emptiness  of  life.  There  is  no  news- 
paper, no  beer,  and  no  music-hall  when  once  the 
ship  is  out  of  soundings,  so  that  we  find  sailors 
at  sea  acting  precisely  as  the  people  of  the  Mid- 
dle Ages  acted,  and  as  the  country-folk  of  quiet 

districts  act  today.     In  the  dog  watches  (or  at 
164 


IN  A  FO'C'SLE  165 

least  the  second  dog  watch),  when  the  day's 
work  about  decks  is  over,  and  the  night  watch  is 
not  yet  set,  the  sailors  beguile  the  time  just 
as  the  old  folk  beguiled  it  in  the  past,  in  the 
days  when  wandering  minstrels  found  a  welcome 
in  every  tavern.  I  have  seen  the  most  of  a 
ship's  company  sitting  as  still  as  statues  listen- 
ing to  a  yarn  about  a  ghost,  and  I  remember  a 
young  seaman  getting  "  a  bloody  coxcomb  "  for 
rising  from  his  place  while  a  song  was  being 
sung.  On  one  eventful  passage  I  remember 
how  a  sailor  was  "  sent  to  Coventry  "  for  the 
whole  homeward  voyage  because  he  would  not 
subscribe  to  the  joint  purchase  of  an  accordion, 
a  musical  instrument  on  which  one  of  the  men 
performed.  The  crew  clubbed  together  to  buy 
the  musician  his  instrument,  so  that,  like 
"  Arion  on  the  dolphin's  back,"  he  might  play 
to  them  when  work  was  done.  One  man  refused 
to  subscribe,  and  his  refusal  was  visited  upon 
him  by  the  displeasure  of  all  hands.  I  remem- 
ber the  man  wandering  about  like  a  sort  of 
Ishmacl  during  the  night  watches,  finding  no 
one  to  talk  with,  no  one  to  beg  a  chew  from,  and 
no  one  to  lie  beside  in  the  pleasant  trade  winds 
when  we  slept  our  watches  through. 


166         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

Some  of  the  yarns  spun  by  the  fo'c'sle  hands 
are  scarcely  suited  to  quotation,  and  I  have 
heard  songs  sung  by  an  entire  crew  in  chorus 
such  as  no  compositor  could  set  without  danger 
to  his  morals.  These  yarns  and  songs  are  more 
common  now  among  sailors  than  some  forty 
years  ago,  when  passages  were  longer  and 
sailors  more  of  a  race  apart.  They  raise  a 
laugh  always,  but  they  are  always  less  popular 
than  the  old  stories,  which  are  more  purely  folk- 
tales. Of  these  the  most  popular  are  those 
which  tell  of  sailors  who  get  the  better  of  the 
mate,  or  "  the  old  man,"  or  the  landsman,  or 
the  Devil.  Fanciful  and  beautiful  stories  were 
common  enough  at  one  time,  though  now  one 
must  search  hard  enough  to  find  them.  The 
songs  have  also  deteriorated.  The  music-hall 
has  sent  its  lyrics  afloat,  and  beautiful  old  songs 
like  "  Spanish  Ladies,"  "  Bunclody,"  and  "  The 
tide  is  flowing  "  are  now  seldom  heard.  It  is, 
however,  something  that  the  art  is  reverenced 
even  in  its  decadence.  A  good  singer,  a  clever 
story-teller,  a  nimble  dancer,  or  a  musician  is 
always  looked  upon  with  reverence.  I  remem- 
ber an  old  sailor  who  refused  to  criticize  the 
faulty  seamanship  of  a  mate  on  the  ground  that 


IN  A  FO'C'SLE  167 

"  he  sings  pretty  good,"  as  though  any  touch 
of  art  were  sufficient  to  cover  all  shortcomings. 
To  the  simple  mind  the  "  gifted  "  man  is  one  to 
praise  or  to  dread.  It  is  dangerous  to  speak  ill 
of  such  a  one.  "  They  have  ways  of  hearing 
things,"  as  an  old  Irish  fisherman  once  re- 
marked to  a  friend  of  mine. 

One  winter  night,  off  the  Horn  (I  was  aboard 
a  sailing  ship  at  that  time),  a  green  sea  came 
flooding  over  the  deck-house  where  I  lived, 
smashing  the  skylight,  and  leaving  two  or  three 
feet  of  water  to  wash  the  chests  about.  It 
broke  the  little  "  bogey  "  stove  at  which  we 
were  accustomed  to  boil  cocoa  after  our  tricks 
at  the  wheel  and  look-out.  I  therefore  took  my 
cocoa-tin  and  pothook  to  the  fo'c'sle,  where  I 
knew  I  should  find  a  fire  and  a  welcome.  The 
watch  was  just  come  below  when  I  got  there, 
and  the  space  was  filled  with  sailors  who  were 
busy  taking  off  their  oilskins  and  wringing  the 
water  from  their  shirts.  They  gave  me  leave  to 
use  their  stove,  and  I  set  to  work  to  make  my 
brew,  noting  how  warm,  dry,  and  comfortable 
the  fo'c'sle  was,  compared  to  the  filthy  kennel, 
knee-deep  in  water,  from  which  I  had  come.  As 
I  watched  my  pot,  the  sailors  lit  their  pipes, 


168         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

hung  their  wet  gear  to  dry,  and  fell  to  sleep  or 
to  yarning,  as  the  fancy  took  them.  "  There 
was  a  sailor  once,"  said  one  old  man,  "  and  I 
think  he  wasn't  much  use  at  it  anyway.  By 
dad  I  don't  think  it.  And  he  went  to  sea  one 
time  in  one  of  them  old  tea-clippers,  the 
Thames  to  Canton  River;  the  Nancy  Strang 
her  name  was.  So  when  they  gets  to  setting  the 
watch  the  first  night  after  leaving  the  Downs, 
the  mate  he  comes  to  this  feller.  '  What  are 
you  doing?'  he  says.  *  What's  your  name?' 

*  My  name's  Jack,'  he  says.     *  You  don't  mean 
it?5   says   the   mate.     *  Well,   Jack,'   he   says, 

*  just  nip  aloft  there  with  a  can  of  slush  and 
grease  the  main  royal  mast;  the  skysail  parrel 
don't  work  easy.'     So  Jack  he  greases  down  the 
royal  mast,  and  it  took  him  the  best  part  of  an 
hour,  and  down  he  come.     '  I  greased  the  royal 
mast,'  he  says.     'Oh,  have  you,  Jack?'  says 
the  mate.     'Well,  Jack,'  he  says,  'just  nip  up 
and  overhaul  them  fore-skysail  buntlines.'     So 
he  do  that  too,  and  down  he  come.     '  I  over- 
hauled them  buntlines,'  he  says.     '  Have  you, 
Jack?'    says    the   mate.     'Why,    then,    you'll 
want   a  job,  Jack,'  he  says;  'just  nip  aloft 
again  and  see  if  the  main  topgallant  staysail 


IN  A  FO'C'SLE  169 

clipbooks  is  moused.'  So  he  do  that  too. 
Well,  all  that  voyage  it  was  'Jack,  just  nip 
aloft  and  see  what's  fouling  the  weather  main 
skysail  brace-block';  or  'Jack,  shin  up  that 
skysail  pole  and  clear  the  truck  halliards';  or 
'  Jack,  aft  with  you  with  a  scraper  and  scrape 
the  end  of  the  gaff.'  Every  nasty  little 
worriting  job  they  give  to  him.  It  was 
Jack  this,  and  Jack  that,  and  Jack  do 
the  other  thing,  till  he  was  fairly  twisted 
with  it,  the  same  as  Barney's  bull.  So  when 
they  come  to  Canton  River  he  was  all  wore 
to  skin  and  bone.  '  Jump  in  the  boat  there, 
Jack,'  they  says,  *  and  clean  her  out  ready  for 
the  old  man  to  go  ashore.'  '  I  will,  indeed,'  he 
says,  '  when  my  mother's  cows  come  home,'  he 
says.  And  he  give  a  run  and  jump,  and  over 
the  side  he  goes,  and  into  Canton  River,  and  up 
the  bank  into  the  town.  *  I'll  swallow  the 
anchor  of  that  there  hooker,'  he  says.  '  I  ain't 
going  to  be  wore  to  skin  and  bone,'  he  says ; 
'  having  my  old  iron  worked  up,'  he  says. 
*  Jack  this,  and  Jack  that,  and  Jack  lay  aft  till 
I  ground  you  into  bath-brick.  Enough  of 
that,'  he  says.  So  he  lays  low  among  all  them 
yellow  chows,  and  he  watches  the  Nancy  Strang 


170          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

as  she  sails  for  the  Thames.  *  A  good  riddance, 
you  hungry,  cruel,  sailor's  misery,'  he  says. 
And  he  goes  and  ships  in  a  Yankee  packet 
bound  for  the  Mersey.  Well,  the  first  night  out 
the  second  mate  comes  to  him.  '  What's  your 
name? '  he  says.  Well,  he'd  had  enough  of 
Christian  names  on  the  trip  out,  that  fellow 
had.  So  he  lets  on  he's  a  stammerer.  So  he 
says,  *  M  M  M  M  M  M  M,'  like  he  couldn't 
speak  straight.  '  What  name?  '  says  the  sec- 
ond mate.  *  M  M  M  M  M,'  he  says.  *  O 
snakes  ! '  says  the  second  mate,  '  be  darned  if  we 
haven't  got  a  dummy  aboard.  O,  set  down,'  he 
says.  *  Go  and  take  a  set  down.  You  can  give 
it  me  in  writing  in  the  morning.  Here  you 
there,  Bill,'  he  says.  *  Up  to  the  main  skysail 
there  and  unreeve  the  truck  halliards.'  So 
Jack  he  lies  low  all  the  run  home,  and  not  a 
single  stroke  did  he  get  called  on  for,  and  in  a 
Yankee  ship  at  that." 


XIX 
THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  WELL 

"  ONCE  upon  a  time  there  was  a  sailor  named 
Bill.  He  was  a  seaman,  and  a  hard  case. 
We  sailed  together  in  the  Aladdin  barque.  She 
was  burnt  off  Valparaiso  a  year  or  two  later. 
Her  old  man  was  a  son  of  a  gun  for  style. 
You  should  have  seen  him  carry  cloth.  When 
Bill  was  a  young  man  he  got  a  lot  of  folly  — 
reading  them  novels.  They're  a  dandy  set, 
them  writer  fellers.  Well,  Bill  he  read  them  till 
he  got  all  tied  in  a  knot  with  it.  He  got  so  as 
he  couldn't  tell  the  truth.  That's  straight. 
He  couldn't  call  the  kettle  black.  I  never  heard 
such  lies  as  he  told. 

"  He  was  ashore  one  time,  on  the  beach. 
That  was  at  Tocopilla.  Was  you  ever  at  Toco- 
pilla?  No?  Well,  it's  the  last  place  made. 
It  wasn't  never  finished.  It's  an  open  road, 
Tocopilla  is,  and  when  it  blows  a  norther  you 
slip  and  skip.  I  was  there  once,  and  a  norther 
come,  and  we  was  three  weeks  at  sea.  Well, 
171 


172          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

Bill  was  there,  on  the  beach,  doing  lancher's 
graft  —  eight,  nine,  ten  and  a  tally  —  tanning 
his  back  with  nitrate.  That's  a  great  graft ; 
two  hours'  work  a  day,  and  a  roaring  surf 
twice  a  week,  so  as  you  can't  go  out. 

"  So  one  time  Bill  was  sleeping  in  his  lanch, 
and  he  woke  up  sudden,  and  he  see  a  little  man, 
all  blue  and  gold  like  an  Admiral.  He  was  .sit- 
ting in  the  stern  of  the  lanch  —  and  there  was 
ah1  butterflies  round  him,  great  green  and  blue 
butterflies,  all  shining  in  the  sun.  So  the  little 
man  looks  at  Bill.  *  Bill,  can  you  spin  a  yarn?  ' 
he  says.  *  I  can,  sir,'  says  Bill.  *  Could  you 
spin  two,  Bill?'  'I  could,  sir,'  he  says. 
*  Could  you  spin  three,  Bill  ?  '  says  the  old  man 
again.  '  Yes,  sir,5  says  Bill.  '  With  what  I've 
read,  I  could  spin  three.'  *  Good-oh,'  says  the 
little  man.  'Hi.  Runkum.  Twit.'  Them 
was  magic. 

"  Now,  so  soon  as  them  magic  words  was 
spoken  the  butterflies  seized  the  bow-painter. 
O,  thousands  of  them  there  were,  great  green 
and  blue  fellers,  all  shining.  And  they  flapped 
their  wings  till  they  sparkled,  giving  that  hooker 
a  tow.  And  she  forged  ahead  through  the  sea 
—  going  steady  west  —  and  the  dolphins  come 


THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  WELL      173 

past,  all  fiery,  and  the  flying  fish  come  past,  all 
bright,  and  the  wind  blows  kind,  and  never  any 
sprays  come  aboard. 

"  So  at  last  they  come  to  an  island,  where 
there  was  golden  flowers  on  the  trees,  and  a  pal- 
ace of  marble,  with  a  Union  Jack  on  the  chim- 
ney. So  they  run  alongside,  and  the  butterflies 
goes  to  the  flowers,  and  the  little  man  takes  Bill 
to  the  palace. 

"  So  when  they  come  to  the  palace  there  was 
nothing  but  books,  written  by  them  novel  fel- 
lers. The  place  was  stowed  with  them,  like  a 
ship  with  dunnage.  Heaps  and  heaps  of  them, 
new  and  old,  big  and  little,  Bible  books  and 
Deadwood  Dickeys.  You  never  saw  such  a 
gash  of  books.  And  all  along  the  books  there 
was  a  sort  of  row  of  cells,  like  in  Liverpool  Jail, 
and  voices  coming  out  of  them,  like  in  Liverpool 
Jail  on  Sunday.  '  What's  in  them  cells?  '  says 
Bill.  *  Just  writer  fellers,'  says  the  little  man. 
*  Now,  mind,  Bill,'  he  says,  *  you  got  to  spin 
yarns  to  the  King.  Don't  you  go  telling  any 
lies,  now.  None  of  your  Cape  Horn  Gospels.' 

"  And  with  that  he  shoves  Bill  through  a 
door,  and  there  he  was,  in  a  great  big  room  as 
big  as  a  church.  It  was  all  covered  with  books 


174         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

—  all  sorts  of  books  —  and  at  the  end  of  it  was 
a  King  on  a  throne,  with  a  sort  of  soldiers,  with 
axes,  standing  guard  by  him.  He  was  a  weary- 
looking  man,  the  King  was.  Round  his  throne 
was  all  books,  written  by  them  novel  fellers. 
They're  a  gummy  lot,  them  fellers.  The  King 
had  been  reading  of  them. 

"  So  he  sees  Bill,  and  he  speaks  in  a  sort  of 
a  groan.  *  I've  been  looking  for  truth,'  he 
says ;  '  looking  for  truth  in  all  these  books,  in 
all  these  stories.  There's  not  a  rat  of  truth  in 
one  of  them.  Not  a  solid  rat,  there  isn't.  And 
some  of  them  I've  got,  and  some  of  them  I've  not 
got,  but  I've  got  the  biggest  liars  of  them. 
They're  under  lock  and  key,  they  are.  But  I've 
got  no  truth.  Not  a  rat  of  truth  have  I  got. 
And  I've  read  all  these,  as  you  see.' 

"  So  Bill  he  just  bows. 

"  *  Now,  Bill,'  says  the  King,  '  tell  us  them 
tales  of  yours.  I'm  sick  for  a  true  word,  and 
that's  the  plain  fact.  Heave  and  she  goes, 
now.' 

"  So  Bill  he  pitches  him  a  song  and  dance. 
'  Once  upon  a  time,'  he  says,  *  I  was  in  command 
of  the  Carrowdore  clipper.  And  I  was  bound 
through  the  Pal-am-j  en-bang  Straits,  between 


THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  WELL      175 

Java  and  Oa-moru.  And  you  may  take  it  from 
him  who  discovered  them,  them  Straits  is  a 
caution.  They're  as  narrow  as  Sunday  Lane, 
and  as  full  of  rocks  as  a  barrow  is  of  peanuts. 
And  I  went  through  on  a  spring  tide,  with 
breakers  roaring  like  a  lot  of  psalm-singers. 
And  the  rocks  were  all  close  aboard.  And  a 
mermaid  sat  on  each  rock,  with  golden  hair 
falling  over  her.  And  the  mermaids  were  all 
playing  ball  with  drowned  men's  skulls.  It  was 
tough,  and  I  didn't  like  the  looks  of  it,  but 
"  Starboard,"  I  says.  "  Check  in  your  head 
brace,  Mr.  Mate,"  I  says.  "  Heave  now,"  I 
says.  "  Heave  and  break  your  hearts."  And 
she  ran  through,  like  a  calf  being  chevied  by  a 
boys'  school,  without  so  much  as  starting  a 
yarn.' 

"  And  the  King  looks  at  his  Prime  Minister, 
and  the  Prime  Minister  smiles  and  nods  his 
head.  '  By  James,  Bill,'  says  the  King, '  you've 
got  the  root  of  the  matter  in  you.  It  rings 
true  in  every  word.  Now  your  second  tale. 
At  once.'  So  Bill  he  hands  out  another  song 
and  dance.  *  Once  upon  a  time,'  he  says,  *  I  was 
in  command  of  the  Euryalus,  forty-gun  ship, 
and  I  was  cruising  off  of  Cape  Tiburon,  sup- 


176         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

pressing  them  Spanish  privateers.  And  we 
come  across  a  raft  with  old  Father  Neptune  on 
it.  He  was  being  towed  by  a  lot  of  porpoise, 
and  he  was  dead-oh.  And  the  porpoise  was  eat- 
ing shrimps  while  he  slept.  So  we  slip  a  bow- 
line over  him  and  hoist  him  on  deck,  and  I  give 
him  dinner  when  he  wakes.  So  I  fill  him  to  the 
chin  with  Navy  rum,  and  then  I  pump  him. 
"  Where's  them  Spanish  privateers  ?  "  I  says. 
And  he  tells  me.  So  then  I  let  her  go  off,  and 
I  put  him  aboard  his  raft  again.  And  I  make 
a  general  average  of  the  Spaniards,  and  the 
Queen  of  England  made  me  a  Knight  that  very 
next  Christmas.' 

"  And  the  King  looks  at  his  Prime  Minis- 
ter, and  the  Prime  Minister  laughs,  and  they 
shake  hands  together,  like  in  the  theatre  — '  Ha, 
me  brother ! '  Just  like  that.  And  the  King 
turns  to  Bill.  '  At  last,'  he  says,  *  out  of  the 
mouth  of  a  simple  person  have  I  heard  the  truth 
—  the  real  truth.  Oh,  your  third  story.  At 
once!  '  So  Bill  he  just  shoves  ahead  and  hands 
them  out  another,  like  they  give  buns  at  a  school 
treat. 

"  *  Once  upon  a  time,'  he  says, '  I  was  wrecked 


THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  WELL      177 

on  the  South  Pole  —  ran  bang  into  it  one  windy 
night.  I  carried  away  so  many  splinters  from 
it  that  we  used  it  for  firewood  all  the  time  we 
were  en  the  raft.  We  were  ninety-nine  days 
drifting,  and  nothing  to  eat  all  that  while  except 
just  whales  and  that  —  and  one  or  two  flying 
fish.' 

"  *  One  or  two  what?  '  said  the  King. 

"  '  Flying  fish,'  says  Bill ;  *  ordinary  flying 
fish.' 

"  «  Flying  fish  ?  '  says  the  King.  «  Flying  fish, 
did  you  say  ?  ' 

"  *  Yes ;  flying  fish,  of  course,'  says  Bill. 
*  D'you  mean  to  say  you're  a  King  and  never 
heard  of  flying  fish?  ' 

"  And  the  King  he  wept  like  a  child.  *  I 
thought  you  were  bringing  me  the  truth,'  he 
says.  '  The  truth  I  have  always  longed  for. 
And  you  lie  about  fish  flying  like  a  Portuguese 
pilot.  Here ! '  he  says  to  the  guard.  *  Remove 
this  person.  No,  don't  kill  him.  He  is  not  fit 
to  die.  Turn  him  adrift  in  his  boat,  with  some 
bread  and  water.  Begone,  you  and  your  fly- 
ing fish !  You're  the  foulest  liar  I've  ever  come 
across ! ' 


178         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

"  So  Bill  he  was  put  into  his  boat  and  turned 
adrift,  and  he  mighty  near  got  drowned.  And 
never  a  lie  has  he  ever  told  since  then.  He  was 
that  changed  by  the  sight  of  that  old  King." 


XX 
BEING  ASHORE 

IN  the  nights,  in  the  winter  nights,  in  the 
nights  of  storm  when  the  wind  howls,  it  is  then 
that  I  feel  the  sweet  of  it.  Aha,  I  say,  you 
howling  catamount,  I  say,  you  may  blow,  wind, 
and  crack  your  cheeks,  for  all  I  care.  Then  I 
listen  to  the  noise  of  the  elm  trees  and  to  the 
creak  in  the  old  floorings,  and,  aha,  I  say,  you 
whining  rantipoles,  you  may  crack  and  you  may 
creak,  but  here  I  shall  lie  till  daylight. 

There  is  a  solid  comfort  in  a  roaring  storm 
ashore  here.  But  on  a  calm  day,  when  it  is 
raining,  when  it  is  muddy  underfoot,  when  the 
world  is  the  colour  of  a  drowned  rat,  one  calls 
to  mind  more  boisterous  days,  the  days  of  effort 
and  adventure;  and  wasn't  I  a  fool,  I  say,  to 
come  ashore  to  a  life  like  this  life.  And  I  was 
surely  daft,  I  keep  saying,  to  think  the  sea  as 
bad  as  I  always  thought  it.  And  if  I  were  in  a 
ship  now,  I  say,  I  wouldn't  be  doing  what  I'm 

trying  to  do.     And,  ah !  I  say,  if  I'd  but  stuck 
179 


180         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

to  the  sea  I'd  have  been  a  third  in  the  Cunard, 
or  perhaps  a  second  in  a  P.S.N.  coaster.  I 
wouldn't  be  hunched  at  a  desk,  I  say,  but  I'd  be 
up  on  a  bridge  —  up  on  a  bridge  with  a  helms- 
man, feeling  her  do  her  fifteen  knots. 

It  is  at  such  times  that  I  remember  the  good 
days,  the  exciting  days,  the  days  of  vehement 
and  spirited  living.  One  day  stands  out,  above 
nearly  all  my  days,  as  a  day  of  joy. 

We  were  at  sea  off  the  River  Plate,  running 
south  like  a  stag.  The  wind  had  been  slowly 
freshening  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  for  one 
whole  day  we  had  whitened  the  sea  like  a  battle- 
ship. Our  run  for  the  day  had  been  271  knots, 
which  we  thought  a  wonderful  run,  though  it 
has,  of  course,  been  exceeded  by  many  ships. 
For  this  ship  it  was  an  exceptional  run.  The 
wind  was  on  the  quarter,  her  best  point  of  sail- 
ing, and  there  was  enough  wind  for  a  glutton. 
Our  captain  had  the  reputation  of  being  a 
"  cracker-on,"  and  on  this  one  occasion  he  drove 
her  till  she  groaned.  For  that  one  wonderful 
day  we  staggered  and  swooped,  and  bounded  in 
wild  leaps,  and  burrowed  down  and  shivered, 
and  anon  rose  up  shaking.  The  wind  roared 
up  aloft  and  boomed  in  the  shrouds,  and  the 


BEING  ASHORE  181 

sails  bellied  out  as  stiff  as  iron.  We  tore 
through  the  sea  in  great  jumps  —  there  is  no 
other  word  for  it.  She  seemed  to  leap  clear  from 
one  green  roaring  ridge  to  come  smashing  down 
upon  the  next.  I  have  been  in  a  fast  steamer 
—  a  very  fast  turbine  steamer  —  doing  more 
than  twenty  knots,  but  she  gave  me  no  sense  of 
great  speed.  In  this  old  sailing  ship  the  joy  of 
the  hurry  was  such  that  we  laughed  and  cried 
aloud.  The  noise  of  the  wind  booming,  and  the 
clack,  clack,  clack  of  the  sheet-blocks,  and  the 
ridged  seas  roaring  past  us,  and  the  groaning 
and  whining  of  every  block  and  plank,  were  like 
tunes  for  a  dance.  We  seemed  to  be  tearing 
through  it  at  ninety  miles  an  hour.  Our  wake 
whitened  and  broadened,  and  rushed  away  aft  in 
a  creamy  fury.  We  were  running  here,  and 
hurrying  there,  taking  a  small  pull  of  this,  and 
getting  another  inch  of  that,  till  we  were  weary. 
But  as  we  hauled  we  sang  and  shouted.  We 
were  possessed  of  the  spirits  of  the  wind. 
We  could  have  danced  and  killed  each  other. 
We  were  in  an  ecstasy.  We  were  possessed. 
We  half  believed  that  the  ship  would  leap  from 
the  waters  and  hurl  herself  into  the  heavens, 
like  a  winged  god.  Over  her  bows  came  the 


182         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

sprays  in  showers  of  sparkles.  Her  foresail 
was  wet  to  the  yard.  Her  scuppers  were 
brooks.  Her  swing-ports  spouted  like  cat- 
aracts. Recollect,  too,  that  it  was  a  day  to 
make  your  heart  glad.  It  was  a  clear  day,  a 
sunny  day,  a  day  of  brightness  and  splendour. 
The  sun  was  glorious  in  the  sky.  The  sky  was 
of  a  blue  unspeakable.  We  were  tearing  along 
across  a  splendour  of  sea  that  made  you  sing. 
Far  as  one  could  see  there  was  the  water  shining 
and  shaking.  Blue  it  was,  and  green  it  was, 
and  of  a  dazzling  brilliance  in  the  sun.  It  rose 
up  in  hills  and  in  ridges.  It  smashed  into  a 
foam  and  roared.  It  towered  up  again  and 
toppled.  It  mounted  and  shook  in  a  rhythm,  in 
a  tune,  in  a  music.  One  could  have  flung  one's 
body  to  it  as  a  sacrifice.  One  longed  to  be  in 
it,  to  be  a  part  of  it,  to  be  beaten  and  banged 
by  it.  It  was  a  wonder  and  a  glory  and  a 
terror.  It  was  a  triumph,  it  was  royal,  to  see 
that  beauty. 

And  later,  after  a  day  of  it,  as  we  sat  below, 
we  felt  our  mad  ship  taking  yet  wilder  leaps, 
bounding  over  yet  more  boisterous  hollows,  and 
shivering  and  exulting  in  every  inch  of  her. 
She  seemed  filled  with  a  fiery,  unquiet  life.  She 


BEING  ASHORE  183 

seemed  inhuman,  glorious,  spiritual.  One  for- 
got that  she  was  man's  work.  We  forgot  that 
we  were  men.  She  was  alive,  immortal,  furious. 
We  were  her  minions  and  servants.  We  were 
the  star-dust  whirled  in  the  train  of  the  comet. 
We  banged  our  plates  with  the  joy  we  had  in 
her.  We  sang  and  shouted,  and  called  her  the 
glory  of  the  seas. 

There  is  an  end  to  human  glory.  "  Great- 
ness a  period  hath,  no  sta-ti-on."  The  end  to 
our  glory  came  when,  as  we  sat  at  dinner,  the 
door  swung  back  from  its  hooks  and  a  mate  in 
oilskins  bade  us  come  on  deck  "  without  stop- 
ping for  our  clothes."  It  was  time.  She  was 
carrying  no  longer ;  she  was  dragging.  To 
windward  the  sea  was  blotted  in  a  squall.  The 
line  of  the  horizon  was  masked  in  a  grey  film. 
The  glory  of  the  sea  had  given  place  to  greyness 
and  grimness.  Her  beauty  had  become  savage. 
The  music  of  the  wind  had  changed  to  a  howl  as 
of  hounds. 

And  then  we  began  to  "  take  it  off  her,"  to 
snug  her  down,  to  check  her  in  her  stride.  We 
went  to  the  clewlines  and  clewed  the  royals  up. 
Then  it  was,  "  Up  there,  you  boys,  and  make 
the  royals  fast."  My  royal  was  the  mizzen- 


184         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

royal,  a  rag  of  a  sail  among  the  clouds,  a  great 
grey  rag,  which  was  leaping  and  slatting  a  hun- 
dred and  sixty  feet  above  me.  The  wind  beat 
me  down  against  the  shrouds,  it  banged  me  and 
beat  me,  and  blew  the  tears  from  my  eyes.  It 
seemed  to  lift  me  up  the  futtocks  into  the  top, 
and  up  the  topmast  rigging  to  the  cross-trees. 
In  the  cross-trees  I  learned  what  wind  was. 

It  came  roaring  past  with  a  fervour  and  a 
fury  which  struck  me  breathless.  I  could  only 
look  aloft  to  the  yard  I  was  bound  for  and  heave 
my  panting  body  up  the  rigging.  And  there 
was  the  mizzen-royal.  There  was  the  sail  I  had 
come  to  furl.  And  a  wonder  of  a  sight  it  was. 
It  was  blowing  and  bellying  in  the  wind,  and 
leaping  around  "  like  a  drunken  colt,"  and  fly- 
ing over  the  yard,  and  thrashing  and  flogging. 
It  was  roaring  like  a  bull  with  its  slatting  and 
thrashing.  The  royal  mast  was  bending  to  the 
strain  of  it.  To  my  eyes  it  was  buckling  like 
a  piece  of  whalebone.  I  lay  out  on  the  yard, 
and  the  sail  hit  me  in  the  face  and  knocked  my 
cap  away.  It  beat  me  and  banged  me,  and  blew 
from  my  hands.  The  wind  pinned  me  flat 
against  the  yard,  and  seemed  to  be  blowing  all 
my  clothes  to  shreds.  I  felt  like  a  king,  like  an 


BEING  ASHORE  185 

emperor.  I  shouted  aloud  with  the  joy  of  that 
"  rastle  "  with  the  sail.  Forward  of  me  was  the 
main  mast,  with  another  lad,  fighting  another 
royal ;  and  beyond  him  was  yet  another,  whose 
sail  seemed  tied  in  knots.  Below  me  was  the 
ship,  a  leaping  mad  thing,  with  little  silly  fig- 
ures, all  heads  and  shoulders,  pulling  silly 
strings  along  the  deck.  There  was  the  sea, 
sheer  under  me,  and  it  looked  grey  and  grim, 
and  streaked  with  the  white  of  our  smother. 

Then,  with  a  lashing  swish,  the  rain-squall 
caught  us.  It  beat  down  the  sea.  It  blotted 
out  the  view.  I  could  see  nothing  more  but 
grey,  driving  rain,  grey  spouts  of  rain,  grey 
clouds  which  burst  rain,  grey  heavens  which 
opened  and  poured  rain.  Cold  rain.  Icy-cold 
rain.  Rain  which  drove  the  dye  out  of  my  shirt 
till  I  left  blue  tracks  where  I  walked.  For  the 
next  two  hours  I  was  clewing  up,  and  furling, 
and  snugging  her  down.  By  nightfall  we  were 
under  our  three  lower  topsails  and  a  reefed  fore- 
course.  The  next  day  we  were  hove-to  under  a 
weather  cloth. 

There  are  varieties  of  happiness ;  and,  to 
most  of  us,  that  variety  called  excitement  is  the 
most  attractive.  On  a  grey  day  such  as  this, 


186         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

with  the  grass  rotting  in  the  mud,  the  image 
and  memory  of  that  variety  are  a  joy  to  the 
heart.  They  are  a  joy  for  this,  if  for  no  other 
reason.  They  teach  us  that  a  little  thing,  a 
very  little  thing,  a  capful  of  wind  even,  is 
enough  to  make  us  exult  in,  and  be  proud  of,  our 
parts  in  the  pageant  of  life. 


XXI 
ONE  SUNDAY 

TEN  years  ago  I  was  "  in  the  half-deck  "  of  a 
four-masted  barque.  We  were  lying  in  Cardiff, 
loading  patent  fuel  for  the  West  Coast.  There 
were  six  of  us  "  in  the  half-deck."  Saving  the 
cook,  the  steward,  the  mate,  and  the  old  man, 
we  were  the  only  folk  aboard.  In  the  daytime 
on  weekdays  we  bent  sails,  or  hoisted  stores 
aboard,  or  shifted  topsail  sheets.  In  the  even- 
ings we  went  ashore  to  flaunt  our  brass  buttons 
in  St.  Mary  Street  and  to  eat  sweetstuff  in  the 
bun-shops.  Two  of  us  used  to  drink  "  rum- 
hot  "  in  a  little  public-house  near  the  docks. 
One  of  us  made  love  to  a  waitress.  We  all 
smoked  pipes  and  cocked  our  caps  at  an  angle. 
One  of  us  came  aboard  drunk  one  night,  in  a 
pretty  pickle,  having  fallen  into  the  dock.  An- 
other of  our  number  got  kicked  out  of  a  music- 
hall.  Youth  has  strange  ways  and  strange 
pleasures. 

On  Sundays  we  did  no  work  after  we  had 

187 


188         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

hoisted  the  house-flag  and  the  red  ensign.  We 
were  free  to  go  ashore  for  the  day,  leaving  one 
of  our  number  aboard  to  act  as  boatman.  The 
"  old  man "  always  told  us  to  go  to  church. 
Sometimes  he  asked  us  for  the  parson's  text 
when  we  came  aboard  again.  One  of  the  six, 
who  had  been  carefully  brought  up,  used  to 
answer  for  the  rest.  I  think  he  made  up  the 
texts  on  the  spur  of  the  moment.  He  is  dead 
now,  poor  fellow.  He  was  a  good  shipmate. 

One  Sunday  I  went  ashore  with  the  rest  to 
spend  the  day  in  the  park,  playing  cricket  with 
a  stick  and  a  tennis  ball.  In  the  afternoon  we 
went  to  a  little  teashop  not  far  from  sailor- 
town,  a  place  we  patronized.  It  was  up  a  flight 
of  stairs.  It  was  a  long  room,  with  oilcloth 
on  the  floor  and  marble-top  tables  and  wicker 
chairs  and  a  piano.  There  was  a  framed  text 
on  the  piano-top.  It  was  all  scrawled  over  on 
the  unprinted  part  with  messages  to  Kitty,  a 
tall  Welshwoman  with  but  one  eye,  who  acted  as 
waitress.  The  wall  was  all  scrawled  over,  too, 
with  pencilled  texts,  proverbs,  maxims,  scraps 
of  verses. 

On  this  particular  Sunday,  when  I  entered, 
there  were  half  a  dozen  other  apprentices  al- 


ONE  SUNDAY  189 

ready  seated  at  their  teas.  They  were  all  West 
Coast  apprentices;  that  is,  they  had  been  one 
or  two  voyages  to  Chili  and  Peru  in  "  West 
Coast  barques "  engaged  in  the  carriage  of 
nitrates.  They  were  not  a  very  choice  lot,  as 
apprentices  go,  but  they  knew  the  West  Coast, 
which  we  did  not,  and  one  of  them,  a  lad  named 
Parsons,  was  popular  among  us.  He  had  a 
singularly  sweet  tenor  voice.  He  is  dead  now, 
too.  His  ship  was  burned  off  Antofagasta. 
The  boat  he  was  in  never  came  to  port. 

After  we  had  finished  our  teas  we  sat  about  in 
the  teashop,  smoking.  One  of  the  third-voy- 
agers —  he  belonged  to  a  little  barque  called  the 
Cowley  —  was  chaffing  Kitty  'and  asking  her  to 
marry  him.  The  others,  were  yarning,  and 
holding  a  Dover  Court.  One  of  them  was  re- 
citing the  story  of  William  and  Mabel.  An- 
other was  singing  a  song  popular  at  sea.  Its 
chorus  ends,  "  Love  is  a  charming  young  boy." 
It  is  a  very  pretty  song  with  a  jolly  tune. 
Another  was  singing  "  The  Sailor's  Wives,"  a 
terrible  ballad,  with  a  tune  which  is  like  a  gale 
of  wind. 

Presently  a  wild-looking  lad  whom  his  mates 
called  Jimmy,  got  up  from  his  chair  and  went  to 


190         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

the  piano.  He  began  to  play  a  dance  tune  to 
which  I  had  often  danced  in  the  days  long  be- 
fore. He  played  it  with  a  deal  of  spirit,  and  he 
was  a  good  player,  and  the  tune  moved  him. 
Coming  as  it  did  (on  the  top  of  all  that  silly 
chatter),  with  its  memories  of  dead  nights,  and 
lit  rooms,  and  pretty  women,  it  fairly  ripped  the 
heart  out  of  me.  It  stirred  every  reefer  in  the 
room.  You  could  see  them  stirred  by  it,  though 
one  or  two  of  them  laughed,  and  swore  at  the 
player  for  a  dancing-master.  After  he  had  fin- 
ished his  tune  Jimmy  came  over  to  me.  I 
thanked  him  for  his  music,  and  complimented 
him  upon  his  playing.  "  Ah,"  he  said,  "  you're 
a  first-voyager?"  "Yes,"  I  said.  "Then 
you're  like  a  young  bear,"  he  said,  "  with  all 
your  sorrows  to  come."  I  replied  with  the  sea- 
proverb  about  going  to  sea  for  pleasure. 
"Where  are  you  bound?"  he  asked.  "  Junin, 
for  orders,"  I  answered.  "  I  was  in  Junin  my 
first  voyage,"  he  said.  "  My  hat !  I  was  in 
Junin.  I  was  very  near  being  there  still." 
"  Were  you  sick?  "  I  asked.  "  I  was,"  he  said 
shortly.  "  I  was  that. 

"  Ah,"  he  went  on  bitterly,  "  you're  going  to 
sea  your  first  voyage.     You  don't  know  what  it 


ONE  SUNDAY  191 

is.  I  tell  you,  I  was  sick  in  Junin.  I  lay  in 
my  bunk,  with  the  curtain  drawn,  and  the  surf 
roaring  all  the  time.  It  never  let  up,  that  surf. 
All  the  time  I  was  ill  it  was  going  on.  One 
long,  long  roar.  I  used  to  lie  and  pinch  myself. 
I  could  have  screamed  out  to  hear  that  surf  al- 
ways going.  And  then  there  was  a  damned 
patch  of  sunlight  on  the  deck.  It  almost  drove 
me  mad.  She  rolled  of  course,  for  she  was 
pretty  near  light.  And  that  patch  kept  sliding 
back  and  to,  back  and  to,  back  and  to.  I  would 
see  nothing  but  that  patch  all  day.  It  was  al- 
ways yellow,  and  sliding,  and  full  of  dust.  You 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  sick  at  sea. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  what  it  was  made  me  well? 
I  was  lying  there  in  my  bunk,  and  there  was  a 
crack  ship,  one  of  Farley  Brothers' —  the  Ram- 
adan her  name  was.  She  was  homeward  bound. 
She  was  next  but  one  to  us  in  the  tier.  You 
don't  know  about  the  West  Coast?  No? 
Well,  when  a  ship's  homeward  bound  the  crowd 
cheer  —  cheer  every  ship  in  the  port ;  three 
cheers  for  the  Hardy-Nute,  three  cheers  for  the 
Cornwallis,  and  the  ship  cheered  answers  back 
one  cheer.  And  when  a  ship  sails  all  the  ships 
in  port  cheer  her  —  three  cheers  for  the  Rama- 


192         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

dan  —  and  she  answers  back  one  cheer.  One 
ship  at  a  time,  of  course.  And  every  ship  in 
port  sends  a  boat  aboard  her  with  a  couple  of 
hands  to  help  her  get  her  anchor.  Well,  the 
Ramadan  was  sailing,  and  I  was  lying  in  my 
bunk  as  sick  as  a  cat.  And  there  they  were 
cheering  '  Three  cheers  for  the  Ramadan.' 
And  then  the  one  cheer  back.  *  Hip,  hip,  hip, 
hooray.'  I  tell  you  it  did  me  good. 

"  And  there  I  was  listening  to  them,  and  I 
thought  of  how  prime  they  must  be  feeling  to 
be  going  home,  out  of  that  God-forgotten  sand- 
hill. And  I  thought  of  how  good  the  cheers 
must  have  felt,  coming  across  the  water.  And 
I  thought  of  them  being  sleepy  in  the  night 
watch,  the  first  night  out,  after  having  '  all- 
night-in  '  so  long.  And  then  I  thought  of  how 
they  would  be  loosing  sail  soon.  You  don't 
know  what  it  was  to  me. 

"  And  then  I  heard  them  at  the  capstan,  heav- 
ing in.  You  know  how  it  is  at  the  capstan? 
The  bass  voices  seems  to  get  all  on  one  bar,  and 
the  tenor  voices  all  on  another,  and  the  other 
voices  each  to  a  bar.  You  hear  them  one  by 
one  as  they  heave  round.  Did  you  never  notice 
it  ?  They  were  singing  '  Amsterdam.'  It's  the 


ONE  SUNDAY  193 

only  chanty  worth  a  twopenny.  It  broke  me 
up  not  to  be  heaving  round  too. 

"  And  when  they  come  to  get  under  sail,  set- 
ting the  fore-topsail,  and  I  heard  them  begin- 
ning *  There's  a  dandy  clipper  coming  down  the 
river,'  I  lit  out  a  scritch,  and  I  out  of  my  bunk 
to  bear  a  hand  on  the  rope.  I  was  as  weak  as 
water,  and  I  lay  where  I  fell.  I  was  near  hand 
being  a  goner.  The  first  words  I  said  was 
'  Blow,  bullies,  blow.'  It  was  that  chanty  cured 
me.  I  got  well  after  that." 

He  turned  again  to  the  piano  and  thumped 
out  a  thundering  sea  chorus.  The  assembled 
reefers  paid  their  shot  and  sallied  out  singing 
into  the  windy  streets,  where  the  lamps  were 
being  lit.  As  we  went  we  shouted  the  song  of 
the  sea : — 

A-roving, 
A-roving, 

Since  roving's  been  my  ru-i-n, 
I'll  go  no  more  a  ro-o-ving 
With  you,  fair  maid. 


XXII 
A  RAINES  LAW  ARREST 

WHEN  I  was  working  in  a  New  York  saloon  I 
saw  something  of  the  city  police.  I  was  there 
shortly  after  the  Lexow  Commission,  at  a  time 
when  the  city  was  groaning  beneath  the  yoke  of 
an  unaccustomed  purity.  The  old,  happy,  sin- 
ful days,  when  a  man  might  do  as  he  pleased  as 
long  as  he  kept  the  police  squared,  were  over. 
Roosevelt  had  reformed  the  force  and  made  it 
fairly  efficient,  so  that  saloon-keepers,  who  had 
once  kept  open  "  all  day  long  and  every  day," 
were  compelled  to  close  on  Sundays,  in  compli- 
ance with  the  Raines  Law.  The  saloon  in  which 
I  worked  had  been  accustomed  to  serve  drinks 
on  Sunday  ever  since  its  opening.  When  the 
Raines  Law  came  into  operation  it  continued  its 
ancient  custom,  with  the  result  that  the  police 
entered  one  Sunday  morning  and  "  pulled  the 
j  oint  " —  that  is,  they  arrested  and  fined  the 
proprietor.  Shortly  after  the  raid  I  became  a 
tender  in  this  saloon,  and  had  a  good  oppor- 

194 


A  RAINES  LAW  ARREST         195 

tunity  of  noting  how  a  law  might  be  evaded. 
On  Sunday  mornings,  at  about  eight  o'clock, 
the  bar  was  carefully  darkened,  so  that  no  one 
could  view  the  interior  from  without.  A  vast 
number  of  beer  bottles  was  brought  up  from  the 
cellars.  The  ice-boxes  were  packed  with  as 
much  ice  as  they  would  hold.  A  dumb  cash  reg- 
ister was  produced,  in  order  that  no  one  in  the 
street  might  hear  the  ringing  of  a  bell  as  the 
bar-tender  stored  the  cash.  The  main  door  was 
then  curtained  off  and  barricaded.  A  side  door 
which  opened  on  to  a  porch,  which  opened, 
through  a  second  door,  on  to  the  street,  was 
then  "  put  upon  the  chain  "  with  a  trusty  guard 
beside  it.  The  porch  door,  opening  on  the 
street,  was  locked,  and  Johnna,  the  Italian 
lunchman,  was  placed  in  charge  of  it.  It  had  a 
little  square  glass  in  the  upper  panel,  like  the 
slit  in  a  conning-tower.  Johnna  had  orders  to 
look  through  this  glass  at  those  who  knocked 
before  admitting  them.  If  he  knew  them  he  was 
to  admit  them.  If  he  did  not  know  them  he  was 
to  ask  them  angrily,  through  the  keyhole, 
"  What-a  you  want  ?  No  get-a  trinka  here," 
and  to  pay  no  further  attention  to  them.  As 
soon  as  the  customer  had  passed  within  the  sec- 


196          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

ond  door,  into  the  bar,  he  was  served  with  his 
heart's  desire,  in  the  serai-darkness ;  but  the 
bottles  were  removed  from  sight  directly  the 
glass  was  filled,  lest  a  "  cop  "  should  enter  and 
find  "  drink  exposed  for  sale  "  within  the  mean- 
ing of  the  Act. 

It  was  a  curious  sight,  that  silent  bar,  with  its 
nervous  ministrants  filling  glasses  for  the 
greatly  venturous.  From  behind  the  bar  I 
could  see  Johnna  sitting  in  the  porch  in  his 
black  Sunday  clothes,  with  a  cigar  between  his 
lips  and  an  Italian  paper  on  his  knees.  Some- 
times he  would  grin  across  at  me  as  I  hulled 
strawberries  or  sliced  pineapples  for  cocktails. 
He  would  open  his  mouth  and  beckon  to  me ;  and 
then,  if  the  boss  were  not  looking,  I  would  fling 
a  berry  or  a  scrap  of  pine  to  him.  He  used  to 
catch  them  in  his  mouth  with  wonderful  dex- 
terity, much  as  a  terrier  would  catch  flies. 
This,  and  the  making  of  potato-salad,  were 
Johnna's  two  accomplishments.  I  remember 
wishing  that  I  possessed  some  art  like  this  of 
Johnna's,  for  I  was  always  stupid  at  amusing 
people,  and  have  always  envied  those  with  some 
little  trick  or  skill  to  cover  a  natural  lack  of 
parts.  Then  sometimes,  as  the  guests  came  or 


A  RAINES  LAW  ARREST         197 

went,  we  heard  the  alarm.  The  bottles  were 
rushed  under  cover.  The  proprietor  and  the 
bar-tenders  scattered  upstairs  to  the  hotel. 
The  chain  clattered  as  the  inner  door  was  shut, 
and  then  we  heard  the  challenge  from  the 
p.-itrolman  on  the  street  and  the  rattling  of 
Johnna's  door  as  he  tried  to  get  in. 

One  Sunday,  when  the  bar  was  full  of  people, 
a  friend  of  mine  brought  in  a  purser  from  one 
of  the  Cunard  steamers.  He  was  one  of  the 
thirstiest  of  men,  this  purser,  with  more  money 
than  was  good  for  one  so  thirsty.  He  had  been 
in  the  saloon  the  night  before,  standing  cham- 
pagne to  all  comers,  with  the  result  that  he  had 
had  to  leave  his  watch  behind  as  a  sort  of 
promise  to  pay.  He  had  now  come  to  redeem 
the  watch  and  to  stand  some  more  champagne. 
It  chanced  that  in  his  apportionment  of  the 
drink  Johnna  received  about  a  pint  of  cham- 
pagne, together  with  a  quantity  of  old  Man- 
hattan. The  mixture  was  disastrous,  and 
about  half  an  hour  later,  when  the  fusion  was 
complete,  he  allowed  two  tall,  dark  men  to  enter, 
neither  one  of  whom  was  known  as  a  frequenter 
of  the  house.  It  happened  that  the  inner  door 
was  open  at  the  moment,  for  the  guard  was  at 


198          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

the  bar  drinking  to  the  purser's  health.  The 
bar  was  crowded  with  drinkers.  The  counter 
was  littered  with  champagne  bottles.  John,  the 
red-headed  bar-tender,  was  not  quite  sober.  I 
had  my  back  turned,  and  was  stacking  ice  in  the 
ice-box.  The  hotel  proprietor  chanced  to  see 
them  as  they  asked  for  whisky.  "  Don't  serve 
them,  John,"  he  cried ;  but  the  caution  came  too 
late.  John  put  the  four  little  glasses  on  the 
bar,  and  gave  them  the  bottle,  together  with  the 
jug  of  ice-water.  The  other  customers,  who 
had  heard  the  boss's  caution,  at  once  guessed 
who  the  two  men  were.  They  fell  away  to  right 
and  left  in  dead  silence.  One  of  them  leaned 
across  to  me  with  a  grin.  "  You're  gone  up, 
my  son,"  he  said.  "  You're  pulled  for  fair." 
The  two  men  drank  their  whisky,  and  turned  to 
John  and  to  me.  "  Put  on  your  coats  and  come 
along,"  they  said.  "  You're  pulled.  Where's 
the  proprietor?  "  I  put  on  my  coat  and  walked 
out  to  them.  John  followed,  fumbling  with  his 
buttons.  The  proprietor  rose  from  his  chair, 
swearing  softly  at  his  ill-fortune.  He  walked 
up  to  the  two  men  and  looked  at  them  very 
straight,  much  as  a  doctor  looks  at  a  patient. 
The  two  men  looked  at  him  very  straight,  and 


A  RAINES  LAW  ARREST        199 

shifted  on  their  feet  as  though  expecting  some- 
thing. John  and  I,  their  prisoners,  stood  wait- 
ing to  be  haled  to  prison.  At  last  the  proprie- 
tor spoke.  "  Say,"  he  said,  "  won't  you  come 
upstairs?  "  The  two  men  did  not  answer,  but 
as  the  boss  opened  the  door  they  passed  out  with 
him.  We  saw  then  that  they  had  regulation 
boots  upon  their  feet,  a  bit  of  observation  which 
served  me  in  good  stead  a  few  weeks  later. 
"  Take  off  your  coats,  boys,"  said  one  of  the 
drinkers  round  the  bar.  "  Them  cops  is  on  the 
make.  You  ain't  goin'  to  be  pulled."  I  took 
my  coat  off  and  went  back  to  my  place  behind 
the  bar.  Almost  directly  afterwards  the  elec- 
tric bell  rang  from  the  boss's  sitting-room  up- 
stairs. I  went  to  see  what  he  wanted,  but  as  I 
started  John  called  me  back  to  get  my  tray. 
"  Take  a  cigar-box  with  you,"  he  said,  "  and  a 
packet  of  cigarettes,  and  some  chew'n'  to- 
backer."  So  I  did  as  I  was  bid. 

When  I  got  upstairs  I  found  the  boss  and  the 
two  detectives  sitting  at  a  table.  I  put  the 
cigars  and  other  matters  on  the  table,  with  a 
box  of  matches.  "  Put  a  quart  of  champagne 
on  ice  and  bring  it  up  here,"  said  the  boss. 
"  See  you  don't  frappe  it  too  cold."  So  I  re- 


200          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

turned  to  the  bar  to  cool  a  bottle,  while  John 
sliced  a  few  cucumber  sandwiches,  put  out  a 
little  dish  of  olives  and  a  plate  of  dry  biscuits 
rather  like  cheese-stick,  of  the  sort  called  pret- 
zels. When  the  wine  was  cold  I  decked  my  tray 
and  bore  it  in  to  the  trio  in  their  sitting-room. 
As  I  entered  I  saw  that  one  of  the  detectives  was 
folding  up  a  thick  wad  of  greenbacks  which  the 
boss  had  just  handed  to  him.  The  other,  who 
probably  shared  in  the  money  as  soon  as  they 
reached  the  police  station,  had  gutted  the  cigar- 
box  and  stored  his  pockets  with  twenty-five  cent 
cigars.  I  put  down  the  wine  and  poured  out 
three  creaming  glasses.  "  Here's  happy  days," 
said  the  boss.  "  Drink  hearty,"  said  one  de- 
tective. "  Let  her  go,  boys,"  said  the  other. 
"  Fill  them  up  again,"  said  the  boss.  "  You 
may  go  now,  John,"  he  added.  "  Have  another 
pint  on  ice  in  case  I  ring."  That  was  all  we 
heard  of  the  matter.  Our  case  never  came  be- 
fore the  magistrates. 


XXIII 

THE  SCHOONER-MAN'S 
CLOSE  CALLS 

ON  the  Hudson  River  shore  near  the  railway  to 
Albany  there  are  a  number  of  jetties  to  which 
the  schooners  tie.  In  the  winter  when  the  river 
is  frozen  they  are  deserted,  but  in  the  summer 
and  in  the  spring,  when  the  shad  are  in  the  river, 
they  are  busy  places.  They  are  then  alive  with 
fishermen  and  yachtsmen,  and  with  young  men 
who  have  come  "  to  go  in  swimming."  The 
schooners  come  thither  now  and  again  with  car- 
goes of  bricks  or  plank  for  building.  If  you 
are  aboard  one  of  the  schooners  you  will  find 
that  brick-chucking  from  man  to  man,  two 
bricks  at  a  time,  is  a  monotonous  employment. 
It  is  too  like  being  a  figure  in  a  zoetrope.  You 
are  very  thankful  for  the  dinner  hour,  when  you 
can  sit  down  with  your  back  to  the  windlass  with 
a  mess  of  crackerhash  upon  your  knees.  It  is 
curious  what  tales  the  sailors  tell  each  other 

during  the  dinner  hour.     One  man  will  begin 
201 


202          A  TARPAULIN"  MUSTER 

with  some  anecdote  of  the  last  ship  he  was  in, 
and  another  will  ask,  "  Was  you  ever  ship- 
wrecked, Bill?"  "Why,  sure,"  says  Bill,  and 
then  out  comes  the  yarn.  "  Yes,"  says  Bill, 
"  the  last  ship  I  was  in  I  got  shipwrecked.  It 
was  in  the  Adriatic,  going  to  Tri-East.  She 
was  a  steamer,  one  of  Cairns  Brothers';  the 
Morrowdore  her  name  was.  I'd  a  lot  of  good 
clothes,  too.  I'd  everything.  Good  dungarees 
and  underclothing  and  a  chest.  We  were  going 
into  a  bay.  It  was  blowing  a  bit,  but  nothing 
to  hurt,  and  there  was  a  bit  of  a  sea  running. 
It  wasn't  much,  the  sea  wasn't.  The  old  man 
got  too  far  in  or  something.  He  oughtn't  to 
have  been  where  he  was.  But  we  were  in  bal- 
last. We  were  very  light.  So  we  were  run- 
ning for  shelter.  I  seen  them  on  shore  trying 
to  signalize  us  to  warn  us  off;  but  the  old  man 
didn't  see  it,  or  something.  And  that  Mr.  Hen- 
derson, the  second  mate,  he  was  mixing  paint  in 
the  paint  locker.  He  never  saw  nothing  neither. 
So  at  last  the  old  man  sees  something  was 
wrong,  and  he  sings  out  to  me  to  get  a  cast  of 
the  lead;  so  I  just  got  in  the  one  cast,  and  calls 
out,  *  And  a  half  three,  sir,'  and  I  was  j  ust  haul- 
ing in  to  get  another  throw,  and  the  old  man 


SCHOONER-MAN'S  CLOSE  CALLS      203 

was  just  ringing  the  bell  to  go  astern,  when  she 
took  the  reef.  She  knocked  me  off  my  feet ;  she 
came  on  to  it  fair.  So  we  went  speed  astern, 
and  let  go  the  anchor ;  and  just  as  we  did  that  a 
sea  seemed  to  swing  her  up  and  drop  her  fair  on 
top  of  it.  There  we  were ;  we  couldn't  get  her 
off.  We  did  what  we  could.  But  she  was  there 
for  keeps.  Then  the  sea  began  to  get  up,  and 
she  began  to  work  and  grind.  You  never  felt 
anything  like  it.  She  ripped  herself  open  all 
along.  She  tore  the  bottom  off  her  about  three 
feet  all  along,  so  they  said.  The  crowd  were  all 
steamer-sailors.  They  didn't  know  nothing. 
Of  course  I'd  been  in  sail  all  my  life;  I  didn't 
think  anything  of  it,  but  these  fellers  they  were 
crying  out  at  once.  They'd  never  seen  any  bad 
times  before.  If  they'd  been  in  sailing  ships, 
why,  they'd  've  thought  nothing  of  it.  Why, 
I've  seen  sailing  ships  —  I've  been  in  'em, 
too  —  But  that's  enough  about  them.  She 
ripped  her  bottom  off,  about  three  foot  along. 
She  was  full  to  the  coamings  of  the  hatches  in 
no  time.  So  then  we  got  up  on  to  the  bridge 
or  into  the  rigging,  and  they  got  a  rocket  along 
ashore  for  us,  and  we  all  got  ashore  in  the 
breeches-buoy.  It  was  nothing.  But  they 


204          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

made  such  a  fuss.  They'd  never  seen  any  bad 
times  before.  If  they'd  been  in  sailing  ships 
they'd  have  thought  nothing  of  it.  It  wasn't 
anything  to  talk  of.  But  I  lost  all  my  clothes. 
I  lost  my  chest,  and  my  bed,  and  everything. 
I  come  ashore  with  what  I  stood  up  in." 
"  And  was  that  the  toughest  time  you  was  ever 
up  against?  "  says  another  sailor.  "  No,"  says 
Bill,  "  it  was  not.  I  was  in  a  tougher  time  than 
that  when  I  first  went  to  sea.  I  was  in  a  old 
sailing  ship  that  time  —  the  Bard  of  Blaina. 
We  were  going  in  ballast  to  New  South  Wales. 
Our  ballast  we'd  took  in  under  a  tip.  It  wasn't 
stowed.  I  don't  know  what  we  didn't  have  — 
old  walls,  old  bits  of  houses,  stones,  bricks  — 
anything.  It  was  all  anyhow,  down  in  the  hold, 
We  were  very  light  with  it  all.  We  were  run- 
ning down  our  easting  when  it  happened.  The 
old  man  had  eleven  or  fifteen  pigs  aboard.  He 
kept  them  down  in  the  hold  for  some  reason, 
so  as  they'd  have  room  to  play  about,  I  guess. 
He  was  a  queer  one,  that  old  man.  He  took  us 
away  down  south.  We  were  down  in  54  south, 
for  some  reason.  That'll  show  you  how  far 
south  we  were  —  54  south !  The  mate  said  to 
him,  '  Aren't  we  far  enough  south,  Captain 


SCHOONER-MAN'S  CLOSE  CALLS      205 

Chadwick?  '  *  Ah,  go  on,'  he  says,  '  I'm  going 
to  take  you  into  the  cold,'  he  says.  *  I  got  a 
lot  of  warm  mitts  and  flannels  in  the  slop-chest,' 
he  says ;  *  I  want  to  sell  'em  to  the  hands,'  he 
says ;  *  so  that's  why  I'm  going  down  into  the 
nice  cold  weather,'  he  says.  He  got  it  in  the 
neck,  too,  for  going  exploring.  In  the  neck  he 
got  it. 

"  One  night  there  come  a  squall,  and  that  old 
ship  lay  over,  and  her  ballast  shifted.  You 
can't  think  what  a  noise  it  makes  when  a  stone 
ballast  shifts;  it's  like  being  run  over  by  a 
funeral.  Gurrr,  it  goes.  So  she  lay  over  on 
her  side,  and  we  never  thought  she'd  right.  So 
the  mate  he  put  before  it,  and  then  got  her 
round  on  the  other  tack  and  braced  up  sharp  on 
the  other  tack,  so  as  to  give  her  a  chance. 
The  deck  was  like  the  side  of  a  house,  or  like 
a  slooping  roof.  We  had  to  go  down  and 
shift  that  ballast.  We  were  working  there  with 
candles,  shovelling  and  heaving  it  down.  That 
was  a  tough  time.  It  was  strange  about  them 
pigs,  too  —  the  captain's  eleven  or  fifteen  pigs 
that  I  was  telling  you  about.  Them  pigs  had 
lived  in  that  ballast,  and  they'd  dug  themselves 
burrows  just  the  same  as  rabbits.  And  when 


206          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

we  come  to  shift  that  ballast  we  found  one  of 
the  pigs  got  a  litter  of  young  ones  in  her  bur- 
row. She'd  littered  down  there  in  the  burrow. 
They  lived,  too,  them  little  ones,  until  we  got 
to  New  South  Wales.  But  you  see,  in  them 
parts,  in  New  South  Wales,  they  got  a  law. 
They  got  a  law  which  won't  let  you  land  any 
live  animals.  So  when  we  come  to  New  South 
Wales  a  Government  butcher  comes  off,  and 
he  kills  all  them  pigs  of  the  captain's,  and  he 
lets  him  keep  the  meat.  He  won't  let  him  land 
none.  So  we  had  a  good  scoff  of  pork  while  it 
lasted.  There  was  near  on  twenty  pigs. 

"  It  was  a  tough  time  getting  that  ballast 
shifted.  We  walked  on  the  weather  side;  I 
mean  the  side  that  was  free,  all  the  passage. 
We  never  expected  to  get  to  New  South  Wales. 
The  deck  was  like  the  side  of  a  house.  We 
thought  she'd  go  over  any  time.  That  was  a 
tough  passage.  But  one  time  I'd  a  narrower 
call  than  that  was.  I  was  aboard  one  of  them 
Blue  Nose  ships,  what  you  call  a  Nova  Scotian. 
I  was  mate  of  her.  Of  course  that  don't  mean 
I'd  been  to  school  and  passed.  It  only  means 
I  was  the  best  man  aboard  her.  We  were  in  the 
Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence.  We  were  bound  for  St. 


SCHOONER-MAN'S  CLOSE  CALLS     207 

Anns,  and  it  come  on  foggy.  We  thought  we 
were  all  right.  We  didn't  think  there  was  any 
danger.  But  there  was  the  fog  all  about  us, 
white  and  cold.  But  we  were  all  right,  we 
thought.  We  were  just  slipping  slowly  ahead 
for  a  day  or  two,  and  it  was  foggy  all  the 
time.  Then  we'd  a  man  aboard;  one  of  these 
land-smellers.  And  he  up  to  me,  and  he  says, 
'  We're  got  in  shore.  Better  go  about,  mister.' 
So  I  ast  him  why.  He  says  he  felt  there  was 
land  near.  So  we  all  laughed.  Well,  we  just 
kept  our  course,  with  everything  drawing,  and 
the  fog  kept  on  all  the  time,  white  and  cold, 
so's  you  couldn't  see  the  fore-yard.  Then,  sud- 
denly, there  came  the  '  moo  '  of  a  cow,  right 
close  alongside.  You  know  how  odd  sound 
comes  in  a  fog.  That  cow  might  a  been  a  mile 
away,  or  it  might  a  been  within  forty  foot.  So 
one  of  us  says,  *  A  cattleship ' ;  and  the  land- 
smeller  says,  *  Cattle  ship  up  an  alley ;  there's 
the  land.'  And  just  at  that  very  streak  the 
fog  lifted,  like  it  will  sometimes.  It  just  went. 
And  there  was  old  Shippigan,  with  the  houses 
and  the  sun  a-shining.  I  tell  you  it  wasn't 
more'n  a  hundred  yards  off.  It  was  dead  ahead. 
We  were  running  for  it  with  everything  draw- 


208          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

ing.  Another  ten  seconds  of  time  and  we'd  have 
been  piled  up  '  all  right,  all  right ' ;  and  it  wasn't 
no  farmer's  place  to  pile  up  on,  neither.  So  I 
just  down  helium,  and  we  come  round  in  time. 
It  was  a  close  call.  But  I'd  another  narrow 
call  for  it,  one  time.  I  was  in  another  of  them 
Blue  Nose  ships.  I  forgot  her  name,  now.  It 
was  the  Odessa  or  the  Peninsula.  We  were 
coming  home  from  up  by  Belle  Isle  there.  It 
was  one  spring,  and  it  came  on  fog.  The  ice- 
bergs and  the  Gulf  Stream  is  what  causes  it. 
It  was  a  white  fog,  like  a  Scotch  mist.  I  was 
on 'the  look-out.  I  was  on  the  fo'c'sle.  It  was 
in  the  middle  watch.  So  the  first  thing  I  saw 
was  a  great  steamer's  smoke-stack  away  above 
us.  So  I  sang  out,  *  Down  helium,'  and  the  lad 
heard  me  and  jammed  it  down,  and  she  came  up 
into  the  wind  —  lucky  for  us  —  and  the  steamer 
struck  us  slantindicular.  She  mashed  our  lee 
bow  in,  and  carried  away  an  anchor  and  all  the 
head  rails.  And  you  should  have  seen  our  lee 
fore  rigging.  You  never  saw  such  a  sight.  It 
was  an  all-night  job  for  all  hands,  fixing  up  that 
little  lot.  You  know  what  a  Blue  Nose  crew  is. 
It  took  all  hands  all  night  doing  that  job. 
However,  what  was  the  odds?  We'd  ought  to 


SCHOONER-MAN'S  CLOSE  CALLS      209 

have  been  thankful  we  weren't  cut  clean  across. 
She'd  have  got  us  fair  amidships  if  we'd  not  put 
our  helm  down.  We  never  knew  what  she  was. 
She  just  backed  clear  and  vanished.  I  could 
just  see  her  green  light  up  above  us,  and  a  voice 
sang  out  '  My  God,'  and  there  she  was  gone. 
You  see  some  queer  goes  at  sea.  That  orficer 
feller  got  a  turn,  I  guess.  But  if  you  ask  me 
about  the  sea,  I  say  it  ain't  a  life ;  not  properly 
it  ain't.  It's  an  existence,  that's  what  the  sea 
is.  And  it's  a  yaller  dawg's  existence  even  at 
that." 


I  ONCE  knew  an  old  Norwegian  sailor,  one  of 
the  mildest  and  kindest  of  men,  who  attracted 
me  strangely  —  partly  because  he  was  mild  and 
kind,  but  partly,  alas!  because  he  had  com- 
mitted murder.  I  cannot  remember  that  the 
crime  weighed  heavily  upon  him.  He  spoke  of 
it  frankly,  as  one  would  allude  to  a  love  affair 
or  the  taking  of  a  drink.  It  was  an  incident  in 
life.  It  was  part  of  a  day's  work.  That  it  was 
exceptional  and  reprehensible  not  one  of  his 
friends,  I  am  convinced,  imagined. 

We  made  a  voyage  together,  that  old  Nor- 
wegian and  I.  We  were  in  the  same  watch,  and 
did  very  much  the  same  duty.  I  was  very 
young  and  green  at  that  time,  and  he,  an  old 
man,  a  leader  in  the  forecastle,  dignified  further 
by  poetical  circumstance,  befriended  me  in  many 
ways.  We  used  to  yarn  together  in  the  night 
watches,  under  the  break  of  the  poop,  while  the 

rest  of  the  watch  snored  heavily  in  the  shadows. 

210 


THE  YARN  OF  HAPPY  JACK 

"  Hanssen,"  I  asked  him  one  night,  "  who  was 
Davy  Jones?  "  "  Ah,  come  off  with  your  Davy 
Jones ! "  said  the  boatswain,  interrupting. 
"  Look  out  he  don't  get  you  by  the  leg."  I 
repeated  my  question.  "  Davy  Jones,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  I  don't  know,  b'Joe,  who  Davy 
Jones  was.  I  know  his  locker  though,  b'  gee." 
This  was  a  jest.  "Just  the  sea?"  I  asked. 
"  Dat's  one  of  'em,  b'  gee."  "  And  what's  the 
other?  "  "  You  want  to  know  too  much,  you 
do,"  said  the  boatswain,  interrupting  us  a  sec- 
ond time,  "  you  and  your  Davy  Joneses. 
You're  like  a  Welshman  at  a  fair.  *  Who 
trowned  the  tuck,  Dafy  Chones.'  Come  off  with 
you  and  give  us  a  breeze."  "  The  other  one," 
said  the  old  man,  *'  it's  up  in  the  sky,  b'  gee." 
"  Is  it  a  sea,  too?  "  I  asked.  "  Of  course  it  is. 
Didn't  you  never  read  your  Bible  ?  "  "  Why, 
yes,  but  — "  "  Well,  then,  don't  you  know 
about  the  waters  above  the  firm-ment  and  the 
waters  that  are  under  the  firm-ment?  "  "  If 
you're  going  to  talk  Latin,"  said  the  boatswain, 
"  I'm  sheering  off.  I'll  not  rouse  no  head 
winds  by  listenin'  to  you.  Bloody  Latin 
they're  talking,  them  two,"  he  added,  to  the 
third  mate,  as  he  walked  away.  "  They  ought 


212          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

to  have  been  rooks,  they'd  ought  " —  by  rooks 
meaning  folk  in  Holy  Orders. 

After  he  had  gone  I  got  the  old  man  to  give 
me  the  whole  story.  He  told  me  that  up  above, 
in  the  sky,  there  was  another  sea,  of  a  kind  dif- 
ferent from  our  sea,  but  still  fit  to  carry  ships, 
and  much  sailed  upon  by  the  people  of  the  sky. 
He  told  me  that  the  ships  were  sometimes  seen 
in  the  air  —  having  perhaps  heard  from  some 
Greek  or  Italian  of  the  Fata  Morgana,  a  sort 
of  mirage,  which  does  verily  reflect  ships  in  the 
sky,  though  I  believe  upside  down.  He  said 
that  he  himself  had  never  seen  it,  but  that  it  was 
well  known  how  the  anchors  from  this  upper  sea 
carried  away  chimneys  and  steeples  and  broke 
through  roofs  in  European  villages.  Such  ac- 
cidents were  rather  more  common  in  the  hills,  he 
added,  because  the  hills  made  the  upper  sea 
shallow.  In  the  valleys,  where  most  big  towns 
are,  the  water  is  too  deep,  and  the  sky  ships  do 
not  anchor. 

"  One  time,"  he  said,  "  there  was  a  sailor. 
His  name,  b'  gee,  was  Happy  Jack,  and  he  was  a 
big  man  and  a  sailor  [i.e.  he  was  strong  of  his 
body  and  a  good  seaman].  One  time  Happy 
Jack  gat  paid  off  and  he  tink  he  go  home.  So 


THE  YARNT  OF  HAPPY  JACK     213 

lie  go  along  a  road,  and  by  and  by  he  come  to  a 
town,  and  he  found  all  hands  standing  in  a 
field  looking  up.  In  the  middle  of  the  field  there 
was  an  anchor,  and  it  was  like  red-hot  gold,  and 
the  fluke  of  it  was  fast  in  the  ground.  It  was 
fast  to  a  cable  which  went  up  and  up  into  the 
sky,  so  far  that  you  couldn't  seen  the  end  of  it. 
A  great  nine-stranded  cable  it  was,  with  every 
bit  of  it  shining  like  gold.  It  was  all  laid  up 
of  golden  rope-yarns.  It  was  a  sight  to  see, 
that  cable  and  the  anchor  was.  So  by  and  by 
the  parson  of  the  village  sings  out  to  get  an 
ax  and  cut  it  through,  so  that  they  should  have 
the  anchor  and  a  bit  of  the  cable  to  buy  new 
clothes  for  the  poor.  So  a  man  goes  and  comes 
back  with  an  ax,  and  he  cuts  a  great  chop  at  it, 
and  the  cable  just  shakes  a  little,  but  not  so 
much  as  a  rope-yarn  carried  away.  *  You'll 
never  do  it  that  way,'  says  Happy  Jack ;  *  you 
must  never  have  seen  a  cable,  the  way  you 
shape  at  it.  What  is  it  you  want  to  do,  any- 
way ? '  So  they  said  they  wanted  to  get  the 
anchor  and  the  cable  to  buy  new  clothes  for  the 
poor.  *  Well,'  says  Jack,  '  all  you  got  to  do  is 
to  bury  the  anchor  a  fathom  deep,  and  then, 
when  they  come  to  heave  in  up  above,  the  cable'll 


214          A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

carry  away,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  get 
ten  or  twenty  fathom  of  it ;  whereas  if  you  cut 
it  like  you're  doing  you'll  not  get  more'n  three 
feet.'  So  they  asked  Jack  to  show  them  how. 
'  It's  as  simple  as  kiss,'  he  says.  '  Get  spades.' 
So  they  got  spades.  And  then  they  buried  the 
anchor  seven  or  eight  feet  deep,  with  rocks  and 
stuff  on  the  top  of  it,  till  it  was  all  covered  over 
like  it  had  a  house  on  top.  So  when  they'd  done 
that  Happy  Jack  thinks  he'd  earned  a  supper. 
And  the  parson  says,  *  You  must  be  thirst}7 
after  all  that  work.'  *  I  am  thirsty,'  he  says. 
So  the  parson  takes  him  into  the  town,  and  gives 
him  a  bite  of  bread  and  shows  him  where  there's 
a  water-butt.  *  Nothing  like  water,'  he  says. 
'  You're  right  there,'  says  Jack,  '  there  isn't.' 
And  so  Jack  walks  out  of  that  town,  and  back 
to  where  the  anchor  was. 

"  By  and  by  he  began  to  think  that  the  people 
in  the  ship  up  above  might  be  rather  more  gen- 
erous. So  he  slung  his  coat  off,  and  began  to 
shinny  up  the  cable,  and  he  climb  a  great  piece ; 
and  at  last  he  see  the  ship. 

"  And  never  in  his  life  had  he  seen  a  ship  the 
like  of  that.  She  was  built  like  of  white-hot 


THE  YARN  OF  HAPPY  JACK     215 

gold,  like  a  ship  built  out  of  the  sun  —  a  great 
shining  ship.  Her  bows  was  white  and  round, 
like  a  great  white  cloud,  and  the  air  went  swirl- 
ing past  them  in  thin  blue  eddies.  Her  ropes 
were  shining,  and  her  blocks  were  shining,  and 
the  sails  on  her  yards  were  as  white  as  a  bow- 
wash.  She  had  her  colours  flying  at  her  truck 
—  a  long  golden  steamer  that  seemed  to  be 
white-hot  like  the  hull. 

"  Now,  as  he  comes  up  of  the  sea  like,  and 
gets  his  foot  on  the  cable  and  his  hand  on  a 
bobsfeay,  one  of  the  crowd  of  that  ship  leans 
over  the  rail  and  looks  at  him.  And  he  was  'a 
queer  man,  and  that's  God's  truth  about  him. 
He  hadn't  not  so  much  as  hair  on  his  head,  but 
instead  of  hair  he  had  great  golden  flames.  No 
smoke,  mind  you,  only  flames.  And  he  was  in  a 
white  dress,  but  the  dress  was  all  shining  and 
fiery,  and  sparks  were  all  over  it,  like  he'd  been 
splashed  with  them.  So  Happy  Jack  kow-tows 
to  this  person,  and  he  says,  '  You'll  have  a  foul 
hawse  when  you  come  to  heave  in.  They  been 
burying  your  mud-hook,'  he  says.  So  the  fiery 
fellow  says,  *  Well,  Happy  Jack,  suppose  you 
clear  the  hawse.'  So  Jack  slides  down  the 


216         A  TARPAULIN  MUSTER 

cable,  and  he  works  all  night  long,  and  just  as 
it  comes  dawn  he  gets  all  clear.  Then  he  shin- 
nies up  and  climbs  aboard  the  ship  again. 

"  Now  as  soon  as  he  come  aboard,  the  fiery 
fellows  go  to  the  capstan  and  began  to  sing, 
and  the  song  they  sang  would  draw  the  soul  out 
of  the  body.  It  was  slow  and  sweet,  and  strong 
and  spirited,  all  in  one.  And  it  seemed  to 
Happy  Jack  that  the  golden  cable  was  singing 
too  as  it  came  in  through  the  hawseholes.  In  a 
few  moments  the  sails  were  loose  and  the  ship 
was  under  way,  and  she  was  tearing  through  it 
at  the  rate  of  knots.  All  Happy  Jack  could  see 
was  the  sails  straining,  and  the  ship  lying  over 
to  it,  and  the  blue  air  ripping  past,  and  now 
and  then  a  comet,  and  a  dancing  star,  and  a 
cloud  all  red  with  the  sun.  So  the  fiery  fellow 
came  up  to  him,  and  he  says,  *  You  must  be 
thirsty  after  all  that  work.'  '  I  am  thirsty,' 
he  says.  So  the  fiery  fellow  takes  him  into  the 
cabin  —  it  was  all  pictures  in  the  cabin,  all  blue 
and  green  —  as  pretty  as  you  can't  tink.  And 
he  give  Happy  Jack  a  great  golden  apple  and  a 
bottle  of  golden  wine.  And  Happy  Jack  pour 
out  the  golden  wine  and  drank  it  down  like  it 
was  good  for  him. 


THE  YARN  OF  HAPPY  JACK      217 

"  And  the  next  thing  he  knew  he  was  lying 
by  the  side  of  the  road  half  a  mile  from  where 
he  lived.  And  he  was  in  a  new  suit  of  clothes 
with  shiny  buttons  —  he  was  all  brass-bound 
like  a  reefer.  And  in  his  hand  there  was  a  bag 
of  golden  dollars." 


THE    END 


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